Hawk Visions
by Hidden Relevance
Summary: The Saxons keep a seer as slave, forcing her to use her visions for them. But when she escapes to their dreaded enemies-the Sarmatian knights, will she be hailed as a savior or a witch? OC/Tristan Final Chapter: The Lady of the Lake
1. Prologue: The Seer

**I deeply apologize for how long this fic has taken guys. In order to sort of force myself to give yall longer updates, I'm doing a quick re-vamp and combining my previous chapters into 2 longer ones. From this point on, all the chapters should be this length. **

**Disclaimer: do you really think if I owned anything that I'd spend time writing this? Tristan and I would be spending a lot more time together instead!**

The drums pounded all around her, their deep tones echoing back from the mountains surrounding Cynric's troop. Aisling hated those drums; after 5 years of hearing them almost constantly, she was fairly sure that hell would be nothing but drums day and night. She tucked her head down and wrapping her arms about her chest, focused on putting one step ahead of the other. It was cold in these mountains, and she was not the only one struggling against it. Cynric had already lost a good dozen of his men due to frostbite and exhaustion. He, of course, was wrapped in furs and leather, but most of the soldiers were forced to huddle beneath thin woolen jerkins and ratty cloaks. They had not expected that this campaign would lead them into such weather.

Aisling chuckled grimly. Before the campaign had even begun, she had warned Cerdic of the sudden cold that his men would face, but he'd chosen to ignore her. So be it. She would not pity the shivering Saxons. Not when she was so blasted cold herself. She was clothed in her old tunic and skirt, now more patch than cloth, and the wind was slicing through her like a blade. Her own cloak had been taken as yet another punishment, this time for her "failure" to tell Cerdic about the Roman estate before his pet spy. Once, she might have offered up information on her own, in hopes to protect her mother, Morgan, from such a punishment, but since her death only months before, Aisling had held her tongue until forced to reveal what she'd seen. Slavery and murder would not earn her loyalty.

A gust of wind whipped through the pass and slammed into her, driving her painfully to the ground. _sheets of ice and men screaming 'it's cracking' run run RUN… a gentle soul swings an ax and all is dark and drowning and- _"Get up!" the harsh voice ripped her from the vision as her master dragged her to her feet. Yanking her long dirty hair savagely, Cynric jerked her face up to him. "Do not fall behind, understood?" She nodded grimly, thankful that he hadn't noticed her slipping into the vision. She picked up her pace keeping close as ordered, but now taking in her surroundings more carefully.

There would be ice ahead, she now knew, but in what measure and why it would be such a danger to the men, she wasn't sure. She could only hope this vision would finally offer her some means of escape- the escape she'd not even dared to think of while her mother still lived as Cerdic's slave. She glanced over at Cynric; any escape at this point would be welcome, absolutely any.

Face grim, she strode on among the men she knew might be marching to their deaths, and the drums played on.

--

Cynric's scouts were scurrying back to report in when she noticed the hawk. It dipped and swayed in the mountain wind, disappearing and reappearing in the low lying clouds. Cynric had paused the onward march and incessant drums to confer with the scouts and his second, and Aisling took that moment to watch the creature soar.

She rarely dreamed; the waking visions seemed to block most everything else out of her head. When she did dream, though, she always dreamed of a hawk. It would circle above her, or swoop silently down to stare into her eyes, his own fierce and gleaming. Her mother claimed her hawk was an omen. Of what, though, she never did explain except to mutter something vague about "freedom" or "death" or both depending on the night. Some might have called Morgan le Fay a witch, but her gifts had always lent themselves more to healing and hedge-witchery than to the seer's arts.

Gazing up at the bright hawk above her, Aisling wondered if that omen might mean this day. "Freedom or death, Mother?" she whispered. "Which will it be?" For a moment, the vision of ice flickers back before her eyes. Both seemed likely.

"Girl!" She turned her eyes away from the hawk, and toward her master. Cynric was eyeing her fiercely, waiting for her to dance attendance, as usual. She moved closer to the knot of scouts, grateful for the momentary warmth of the press of bodies, and listened as Cynric explained the report. Apparently, the scouts had found the ice from her vision. A massive lake stretched through the canyon a bare mile ahead of them, and it seemed a likely place for the Sarmatian knights to make their stand. "Well," Cynric sneered, watching her closely for any sign of a vision, "do we meet them there or continue on ahead? Speak up!"

For the first time in a long while, Aisling welcomed the vision. _arrows fly farther than expected out of range but not for- darkness beneath a thin sheet of glass and an ax an ax an ax I'm drowning and- _She pulled herself back to awareness with a gasp, swaying a bit. Predictably, none of the men dared reach out to aid her. She steadied her weak knees and took a deep breath. "We must cross the ice," she whispered, another voice, deep and rough, echoing the words in her mind. "There is no other way." The voice faded as she spoke up. "Only the knights and one other will face your forces. It will be an army against only eight defenders."

Cynric chuckled grimly. "They could never hope to stand against us." He ordered the men to move out as the drums began to pound again.

Aisling took one last longing look up at the hawk. "They won't need to stand when the ice cracks," she whispered, forcing her tired body after Cynric.

**I love reviews guys!**


	2. Chapter 1: The Dream

**Ok this is the 2nd of the re-written chapters and brings us back to the current point in the story. As always, I'm totally honored by yall's reviews!**

**Nothing is mine.. mourns**

Aisling strained to see across the expanse of ice. Sure enough, there were the great Sarmatian knights standing at the far edge of the lake, just as her vision had shown her. Just to her right, at the front of the Saxon's ranks, Cynric wore a smug grin, as if he'd personally planned for such overwhelming odds. The woman forced herself to remain impassive; it would not do for her master to see her looking amused, or worse, as confident as he was. He'd be sure to guess she'd hidden something from him.

Aisling continued to study the distant figures, trying to determine which would be the man most prominent in her visions. He would wield an ax, she knew, but for the moment, all the Sarmatians bore longbows and left their other arms on the ice before them. Try as she might, she could not make out the details of the weapons. She sighed; it would all become clear enough soon. Cynric called out a command, drawing her attention back to the Saxon ranks. Baen, the best of Cynric's bowmen (and an exceedingly cruel man in Aisling's opinion), readied his crossbow and fired. The bolt soared through the air only to clatter to the ice a good distance from the knights.

"They are out of range, my lord," Baen reported. Both Cynric and Aisling turned to stare at the man in bemusement.

"Yes, I can see that," Cynric sneered. Aisling merely grimaced, and returned her gaze to the knights. Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. Weren't they out of range?

"Are they…" Two of the knights took aim and fired. Aisling ducked instinctively, and no less than four of the bowmen near her toppled, felled by the deadly arrows. Aisling lifted her head and risked a glance at Cynric. He was positively apoplectic. The seer smiled grimly; that was not a good sign for the Saxon men. Cynric rarely considered his actions when he was this enraged. Face contorted with rage, Cynric called out the order to advance.

Aisling shook her head at his poor leadership, but kept up as the front lines began surging forward. The Sarmatians were firing in earnest now, sending volley after volley to whittle away at the wings of Saxon ranks. Aisling nodded approvingly at their strategy; despite Cynric's threats, the men were clustering closer together. Soon, she thought, the ice would begin to crack. And in the mean time, Aisling would not mourn those men who had already fallen to the Sarmatian bows.

Within only a few minutes, however, Aisling's hopes began quickly to fade. Though the Sarmatian knights had continued to rain down their deadly arrows, the Saxons had advanced almost half-way across the frozen lake. There were still no signs of the ice giving way, and she was beginning to fear that her visions had told her false for the first time since she could remember. She cursed under her breath and twitched to the side, avoiding yet another arrow; she could not doubt herself, not now when death was almost in her grasp.

But only almost. The Sarmatians were, to her horror, dropping back, scrambling to grab their close combat weapons. There was no way they'd be able to stand against the Saxon force, not without…

Suddenly, her vision moved into life. The tall warrior on the end of the Sarmatian line had rushed forward, bearing an ax that was nearly as tall as Aisling, herself. He raised the massive weapon over his head and slammed it down into the ice. He would break though; Aisling was finally sure of that. The warrior would halt Cynric's forces here.

Her decision made, Aisling ducked her head and dashed past the front line of bowmen, ignoring Cynric's sudden cry of rage at his pet seer's escape. Her eyes glued to the knight, she slipped and skidded across the ice, relying on her gift to dodge the bolts from Cynric's men and the occasional arrow from the Sarmatians ahead of her. Few of those came near her however; it seemed the knights sought to cover her retreat as well as their comrade's suicidal attack. Just when she thought she might reach the large man safely, she stumbled over a ridge in the ice, and fell into the path of a bolt she'd sought to avoid.

Aisling bit back a scream as the bolt sliced through her calf; luckily it was only a graze, but the wound was already bleeding fiercely. She struggled to stand, near crawling and she pushed forward. It was only a little further, only a little further until Cynric could never touch her again. She forced herself to her feet and staggered toward the knight. At least she wouldn't die alone.

She'd almost reached him when his face suddenly blurred. _a small boy waves good bye do not fear me he burns! brave boy a ring pulled from large fingers and- _She lurched forward to grab the man's arm pulling him to the side, the bolt that would have buried itself in his chest striking his arm instead.

"One more," she yelled, "one more and the ice will crack." For one brief moment, their eyes met, and he nodded. Then, with a roar, he struck, fracturing the ice completely. Aisling shrieked as the ice beneath their feet shattered as well, hurling them both into the freezing lake. The big knight was sinking dragged down by the weight of his blade and armor; she flailed and caught hold of his arm, somehow finding the strength to pull him up and past her toward the surface.

In a daze of cold and pain from her leg, she watched as strong hands reached to pull him from the water. The gentle knight would live, and a brave boy would not live alone any longer. Her limbs grew heavy, and with a sigh of "mother" she let loose the last of the air in her lungs. She was free.

**Reviews are the best kind of bribery!**


	3. Chapter 2: The Waking

**Whoo hoo! We have another installment! Sorry it took so long, but I was determined to have a relatively longer chapter. BTW, if you are confused about there this starts- I've combined the previous chapters into 2 longer pieces, so check them out if you need clarification!**

**And on with the fic!**

Her lungs burned for air, but she couldn't find the will to struggle.

She gazed up through the few feet of water above her and watched detachedly as the pale light flickered in the waning sunshine. Slowly, her eyes began to drift close, and her vision darkened.

_An old familiar dream comes to her like a lover, sinking into her as she sinks beneath the ice. Wings beat in her ears like a pulse, and a hawk shrieks. Her eyes widen as, like a stone, the predator strikes, plummeting straight at her, sharp talons extended. She screams as her wrist is clasped in an iron grip. The hawk's eyes burn._

Aisling's eyes shot open, as, with a hacking cough of water, she crashed back into consciousness. Her throat was on fire making each gasp for air a struggle. Dimly, she was aware of slim calloused hands attempting to bundle her into a long cloak and voices shouting in frustration. Mostly, though, she was cold. Bone shattering, teeth clenching, cold. And wet, which, she supposed was only to be expected, given the circumstances. Not that she was incredibly clear on what the circumstances actually were. The cold was approaching mind numbing, and her scattered thoughts were taking even longer to reach clarity.

A woman's voice laced with fatigue cut through the cacophony. "We need to get them warm and dry. All else can wait." Aisling dragged her gaze up to see a dark haired woman leaning over her. It had been her hands that the seer had noted so vaguely. Those hands softly moved the dripping hair away from Aisling's face, revealing those hovered around her.

A dark browed fighter leaned into speak in another's ear, apparently thinking himself quieter than he really was. "Arthur, we can't keep collecting these strays. The girl could be a spy! We can't trust Saxon." The green eyed man, _the _Arthur Aisling's tired mind supplied, seemed about to answer when a boisterous voice shouted from somewhere to her left.

"Saxon! Spy! I don' care. She saved Dagonet." The fierce looking bald man was cradling her giant in his arms, trying to apply pressure to all the multiple wounds that littered the massive body. "Tha's all that should matter, Lance. I won' hear another word about it!"

Aisling tried to push herself to at least a slightly less supine position. "I," she rasped, "I'm not-"

"She's no Saxon." The hoarse voice was one she was surprised to find she knew, though from where she couldn't place. She turned and her eyes found an intense warrior, leading several horses. The ringing in her ears had apparently covered their approach across the ice. To her immense confusion, Aisling noticed that the newcomer seemed almost as wet as she, easily soaked to the skin. Not that he showed any sign of cold. The solemn man barely glanced at her before shaking his dripping braids from his eyes and baring the tattoos on his face, to meet his leader's thoughtful gaze. "Saxons don't birth Seers, Arthur."

"A seer?" She vaguely heard the Roman ask, but she found herself captivated by the man before her. He stood completely still beside a massive grey gelding, but there was an air of captive motion about him, as if at any moment he might suddenly take flight. After a moment, she noticed his eyes were moving, flickering constantly, taking in everything from the surroundings to his comrades to the women lying near his feet. He seemed to see as much if not more than Aisling did. Just what was this man?

"-horses carry more than one in this weather. Some of us will need to lead them." With a strange shift, her attention snapped away from him, sliding to the youngest of the knights who'd appeared without her noticing, more reins in his hands. She blinked. Was he actually wearing a kilt in the snow? She sighed and allowed herself to sink back against the other woman.

"She'll fall on her own, Galahad." She shivered; yet another stranger had somehow appeared without her noticing. This one was broad and tawny, his masses of hair spilling almost as long as her own. "I'll take her up on my lad. He can stand the weight for a while at least." He leaned down and lifted Aisling from the other woman's arms, hefting her as if she weighed nothing. Which was all that un-accurate, Aisling mused absently, as her captors hadn't exactly kept her well fed. The feral knight set her carefully on the big horse, and one of the others (she'd decided there were just too damned many of them to keep straight) held her steady while he mounted behind her. She shrank back against the blonde, somehow trusting him or least trusting his body warmth.

"Tristan, ride ahead and slow the caravan. We'll need the wagon for Dagonet." The leader, Arthur she reminded herself, called out to one of his knights. To Aisling's surprise, it was the one she'd watched so closely. Hadn't he just returned with the horses? And he was still sopping wet!

"He'll freeze to death like that."

"Who, Tristan?" Her escort's response surprised her. She hadn't actually thought she'd spoken aloud. She nodded, silently, unsure of why she was so interested. "He'll be fine." The knight twisted her slightly so she could see his raised eyebrow. "Why? You concerned for your rescuer?"

She blinked, confused. "Rescuer?"

He snorted. "You didn't know? Tristan dove in after you." She felt him shrug. "We all thought you were dead 'til he pulled you out."

"Gawain, we're ready." Arthur's voice was directed at her escort this time. Without another word, Gawain reached around her to take up the reins in both hands and set his gelding following the others. Aisling simply held on, her thoughts following the rider who'd gone ahead.

**Welp, there yall go. Tristan has made his appearance- officially at least, thought there were hints of him previously. **

**Please feed the muse- he eats reviews like candy!**


	4. Chapter 3: The Lady

**See I told you an update was coming soon!! My apologisies (again and I know I sound like a broken record here) for the late update, but I was layed off a couple months ago and had been writing this chapter in my lunch break at work. Everything was lost on that computer and it made it really hard to get up the drive to re-write the entire thing.**

**Anyway- I hope this is worth the wait!**

**BTW this is .. I'm just a fan, nothing more!**

Once again, Aisling found herself awakening in a strange place. This time, however, she drifted from sleep slowly, awareness coming to her a little at a time. Her first realization that she was warm, bundled up in a mess of furs and blankets. She was moving, the 'room' around her swaying and rocking.

_I must be in a wagon_, she thought, not yet wanting to open her eyes. Apparently, she'd fallen asleep some time before the knights reached their caravan of villagers, but she couldn't remember when exactly it had happened. She was still so very tired somehow, exhausted in both body and spirit. That thought triggered another that surprised her: she couldn't remember dreaming. It was, perhaps, the first night she could remember that her hawk had not haunted her dreams, and she could only wonder what that meant. Perhaps her omen of freedom and death (for she supposed she'd likely died for a moment or two beneath the ice) would no longer appear now that that omened moment had arrived. She sighed, wishing she'd known someone, anyone with a clearer view of her gifts.

She heard a faint rustling around her and the soft sound of breathing. Apparently, she wasn't alone. Nor, she suddenly realized, was she wearing a stitch of clothing. She debated on going back to sleep as she had been, blissfully unaware of her rather precarious position, but decided instead to actually survey her surrounding.

Steeling her breath, she opened her eyes. Her first view was that of the ceiling of blankets, as her guess about the wagon was confirmed. She glanced to her left, toward the sound of breathing and saw a bundle of furs similar to the one she was under, if much much larger. A young curly haired boy she recognized from her vision was curled up beside the pile sound asleep. So her giant had survived—it was a strange feeling to know that for once her gift had led to life instead of death. She could only hope that her giant's future held more of the same.

The slight rustle she'd heard earlier sounded again to her right and she turned her gaze in that direction. A pair of dark eyes stared back at her and her mouth went dry. Her rescuer, Tristan, her mind reminded her, sat huddled against the wall of the wagon looking more that a bit uncomfortable in the confines of the wagon. He was dry now, his clothes no longer plastered to his skin. She supposed must have been the reasoning for his presence in the wagon. Self-consciously, Aisling tucked the furs closer to her chin as he spoke.

"So, you're awake." His voice was still as gruff as it had been in those first few moments after her rescue. She wondered idly if he ever allowed his voice to soften, or if he even could. She nodded at him and cleared her surprisingly sore throat.

"What happened?" she asked quietly, not wishing to disturbed her slumbering neighbors.

His smile turned rather wicked. "You passed out. Almost fell of the horse." She sat up in surprise.

"Surely, I did no such thing!" She didn't think she'd ever fainted, not even in the face of some of the horrors afflicted by Cynric and his men. Tristan only chuckled roughly.

"You did." He turned away from her without another word, instead leaning through one of the wagon flaps and calling out to someone she couldn't see. In a smooth motion, he slipped from the wagon and out of sight. She didn't have the chance to find out if she felt lonely in his absence; after a moment, another form slipped through the flap, only slightly less gracefully than the strange scout had been. Aisling found herself faced with one of the more striking women she'd ever met, besides her own mother. The slender woman studied her closely, taking in the way Aisling's eyes held recognition and awareness.

"You are looking stronger than a few hours ago. It is good to see." She nodded, as if to herself.

"I am Gwenivere." She gave her name like a queen might grant an audience, all too aware of the favor she was granting. A genuine smile that revealed she was close to Aisling's own age lessened the noble air enough for Aisling to dare to smile softly in return. Gwenivere's voice held a familiar lilt to it, one that prompted Aisling to wonder if this woman might belong to her mother's so mysterious people: the Britons Morgan had left behind not long after her daughter's birth.

She decided to ask that, and to her surprise and pleasure, the young woman seemed to know her mother, or at least know of her mother. Gwenivere revealed herself to be the daughter of the Merlin, a Woad sorcerer of whom Aisling had often heard her mother speak. It was both strange and a little thrilling to learn that Morgan the village hedge witch had kept such exalted (by British standards) company. Aisling had lived so long apart from her people that she'd doubted her mother's tale of magic and warrior women with blue woad to mark their status in their skin. It was a revelation to be face to face with such a woman.

"How far 'till the Wall?" she asked in a momentary silence in their lively conversation. She struggled to sit up a bit straighter, her arms not quite as strong as she expected.

"Half a day at most." Gwenivere leaned over offering a hand to help the young seer up. Aisling took it and-_hands clasp as an older Woad speaks the words of an age old ceremony between king and queen-dark eyes follow a woman's form as she leaves and calloused hands tearing at a fine gown in haste to reveal skin-Does he know?-knights shouting at each other and a table left empty-a great king in heartbroken rage and war… and…_

A jolt as the wagon passed over a rough part of the tracked jolted her hand from Gwenivere's and pulled her sharply from the vision of a future that set her shivering despite the blankets heaped over her.

"What did you see?" She tossed her head at Aisling's shocked look. "I might be more warrior than witch, but I am the Merlin's daughter." She leveled that arch look on the other woman again. "I can name a seer well enough. Now tell me: what did you see?"

Aisling took a deep steadying breath, knowing that to reveal her vision might shatter the shaky friendship she'd begun to feel toward the Woad. She'd learned at an early age that it was often better to hold her tongue when her visions held such… indiscrete matters.

"You will destroy them both, even destroy us all, if you do not choose between them." To her credit, Gwenivere didn't ask of whom the seer spoke, merely tightened her lips in displeasure. Aisling continued, her eyes on the fur in her lap. "A Woad woman might take many lovers in her life, but from what I know of the Romans, their women can _not_. At least, not if they hope to keep their royal husbands."

She kept her face carefully blank as she spoke that last, as if to make light of the fact that she now knew the Woads sought a king as well as a warrior. It was knowledge that Cedric would have gladly killed for, both the messenger in spite and the Roman Arthur intending to take that eventual throne for himself. Aisling risked a glance at the other woman, wondering at her thoughts in the silence. Gwenivere sat, her own hands folded before her, but her eyes seeming to stare through the fabric of the wagon sides and out into the cold air. A myriad of emotions flickered across her face, far faster than Aisling could read or follow. Finally, her voice steady, she spoke.

"I see." She flicked her eyes to take in Aisling's face, and softened slightly. "You are far more honest than might be welcome in other company, but we are Briton." She reached out and finally eased Aisling into a seated position, furs still wrapped about her tightly. "We do not fear uncomfortable truths."

She shook her head, eyes unfathomable. "Come, let us get you more suitably dressed. We will reach our destination soon enough." Aisling nodded. There would be time enough to consider those uncomfortable truths at the Wall.

**At least it was a little longer right? As always reviews are love!**


	5. Chapter 4: The Wagon

**So it's been over a year since I've updated this, and yes, I know that makes me a truly terrible writer person. Well, that's not all bad. At least now you know I'll never abandon a fic right? And truly, I have a really good excuse... sorta. I'd been stuck in a really nasty plot trap with both Aisling and Tristan being rather adamant that they'd both seen the way the fic was going to end, whether I liked it or not. And I REALLY didn't like the way they thought it should end. Sooooooo, I sulked, and pouted, and tried for about a year to come up with another answer. **

**Finally, earlier this week, I gave up. I was just determined to finally finish this story no matter how much I was going to hate the way it ended. I managed to finish this chapter and send it to my beta person Askita, and tried to figure out how I was going to warn all of you that the mood of the fic was going to go down hill in a big way.**

**Then as I was driving to lunch, an epiphany struck. And I mean struck- be glad I was at a red light or I might had driven into a ditch at the sheer joy of "OMG that's IT!"**

**So, be ready, my dears. This fic will be regularly updated, and better yet, will likely be longer than I ever thought it would. God bless the muse, aye?**

**On with the fic! **

A short while later, Aisling was seated outside on the bench of the wagon, drinking in the warmth of the air beyond the reach of the mountains. She allowed herself to linger over a brief moment of contentment. It was amazing what a clean set of clothing, her first in years, and a lack of snow could do for one's mood. She honestly wasn't sure when she'd felt so near to peace as she currently did. And certainly she'd not been so free since the Saxons had claimed her. She closed her eyes and allowed the feeling to seep deeper into her.

A bump in the road lightly jolted her out of her reverie, reminding her that even peaceful moments could be interrupted at a moment's notice. She shifted slightly in her perch beside the wagon's silent driver, trying to ease the ache in her rear. She heard a low chuckle from behind her, and she half-turned to glare at the figure leaning his head out of the wagon behind her.

"Does something amuse you, sir knight?" Her giant's lips twitched slightly, as he too, shifted a bit as the jolting ride caused his bandaged wounds to pull and twinge. Aisling winced a bit in sympathy, knowing he was in far more pain than she was. A blonde mop of curls shoved forward with a folded blanket, and the boy Lucan offered it to the massive man. Her giant, _Dagonet_, she reminded herself, took the blanket from the boy with a fond smile and tucked it behind him. Only then, did he answer her question.

"No, but I am grateful my pride is not the only one to suffer." Aisling chuckled at that.

"I thought knights were used to traveling the countryside," she teased, and behind her Lucan actually giggled. She was surprised to find her heart lifting at that sound coming from the boy who'd been so lost and solemn in her visions. It seemed she had given more than one soul life when she'd pulled Dagonet out of the path of that arrow. Again, she felt the strange thrill of having saved someone, of having chosen to be stronger than Cerdic or Cynric would have thought she could be.

Dagonet shifted again drawing her eyes to meet his. The knowing, grateful look in his eyes steadied her. He held her gaze for another heartbeat and then spoke as if there had been no pause.

"We are used to horseback, lady. A wagon is different." As if to emphasize his quiet complaint, the wagon lurched over a rut in the dirt road, nearly tossing Aisling off the bench. She scrambled back, yelping a bit as she instinctively tried to catch herself with her wounded leg. She dimly heard hoof beats, and then a strong hand gripped her shoulder tightly and half lifted, half shoved her back to her seat.

"You make a habit of falling, then?" Aisling's gaze shot to the side to see that the hand belonged to Tristan who had leaned half out of his saddle to reach her. She felt a moment of admiration that the move looked easy when he did it. Then her mind caught up with his comment and she half-glared up at him.

"Falling once is hardly a habit!" He pulled himself back upright in his saddle with a snort.

"The ice, the lake, the horse, and the wagon," Tristan said, counting each one with the fingers of his right hand. When he finished, he 'helpfully' held all four fingers for her count. He kept his face carefully blank, but his mouth was twitching.

She heard another longer chuckle behind her and had to remind herself that murdering Dagonet would make her early deed a waste of time. Tristan flicked his eyes past her and gave his brother in arms a faint grin. Aisling swallowed at the sight of it; she hated to admit the handsome scout unsettled her, and damned if it wasn't worse when he seemed to be friendly. He flicked his gaze back to her and licked his lips absently.

"We're near the wall. Be ready, eh?" His gaze lingered for another moment, and Aisling suddenly wanted to cross her arms about her chest, her borrowed gown feeling very thin under the weight of that look. Then with a click of his tongue to signal his horse, he was riding off again. She forced herself not to follow him with her eyes; it wouldn't bring him back towards her, and she wasn't sure she really wanted him there anyway.

"Well, well. Seems someone is rather taken with the little Seer." Aisling spun to see Arthur's dark haired second in command riding on the far side of the wagon from her. Lancelot looked in at Dagonet and waggled his eyes, ignoring her look of irritation. "Wouldn't you agree, Dagonet?" The big knight just shook his head with a slow smile, but Lancelot went on as if he'd been answered. "The lady won four whole sentences from our scout. It was practically a conversation."

Aisling debated on a suitable answer, one that would knock the cocky knight off his high horse _and_ distract him from a subject she hoped to avoid. It took but a moment, and then she schooled herself and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Now, now sir knight, you surprise me," she said, practically simpering in a way she vaguely remember some of the girls from her long-ago-village doing around their sweethearts. Lancelot seemed the type to expect such behavior, and sure enough, he tilted his head and gazed at her appreciatively, ignoring Dagonet shaking his head. She fluttered her eyes again, and then went in for the kill. "Why, I would never have expected you could count that high! And 'conversation' is such a long word too. I am almost impressed."

His jaw dropped, and then he let out a deep belly laugh that had her joining him despite her aggravation. Dagonet did for a moment as well, only to groan as the open laughter jarred his wounds more than was comfortable. Aisling twisted around to support his shoulder as he tried again to find a, well not more comfortable perhaps, but at least less painful position. Only once he'd stilled did she turn her attention back to Lancelot. He was staring at her thoughtfully, and she wondered if the knights made that silent contemplation _their_ habit.

As the moment went on a bit longer than was necessary, Aisling raised her eyebrows at him impatiently.

"Do you not have a task, sir knight? Something other than spying on me, perhaps?" He didn't seem offended, just smiled charmingly at her.

"Well, then, lady. I will take my leave since it is clear I'm not welcome." He grinned again, making it clear to her that he bore no ill will. Then, as Tristan had, he rode off without another word.

She didn't bother watching him either, though it was far less of a struggle than she'd had with Tristan. She sighed softly. Dagonet nudged her shoulder softly, and she glanced over her shoulder to smile her thanks.

Suddenly she was amused by her contradicting thoughts: the towering, intimidating giant could calm her nerves with his eyes, the flirtatious, undeniably handsome charmer only raised her ire rather than her passion, and... She turned her face back to the scenery in hopes that Dagonet would not easily read her expression. And Tristan, the man she was slowly being forced to admit was likely the physical embodiment of her most familiar dream and so should logically be the knight she was _most _comfortable with, did nothing but put her on edge and send sparks down her spine. Damn him, how was a woman in her position supposed to respond to such feelings? It was not as if being Cynric's pet had offered her much experience with her own desires.

Aisling bit her lip in frustration. She was out of her depth. That thought forced a tired chuckle from her lips. She, the Seer, could not see what was coming between the enigmatic scout and herself. Somewhere beyond the veil, her mother would be laughing.

A shout from the front of the train of villagers and wagons drew her attention, and she pulled herself carefully to her feet, clinging to the wagon's roof for balance. The wagon topped a rise, and she caught her first glimpse of Hadrian's Wall.

For once, she was unsurprised by the vision sinking over her. s_moke rises in the air the hawk flies 'you're free' and drums the drums call a figure on a hillside blood on the land 'my brave knights I have'- _She blinked away the war-torn battleground from her eyes along with a single tear she hoped no one had would come to the Wall; she could not longer pretend she would find peace here. She closed her eyes and felt another tear slip free.

**I hope it was worth the wait my dears! **


	6. Chapter 5: The Wall

**So holy cow I was not expecting to manage to post this chapter so quickly! I had this whole system about how I was going to rotate and pay equal attention to all my WIPs but Aisling apparently reached over and highjacked my brain. Really it was hard for me to argue, and besides, this is the WIP that I've got the most on anyway.. so I suppose I can finish it first. *grin***

**On to the disclaimer blahness. I own nothing, though I do have lovely little dreams about a certain scout and fun with feathers. *ahem***

**Enjoy!**

For the rest of the short ride to the fortress, the Wall's shadow had hung over the little caravan of refugees with a foreboding weight. Or so Aisling had felt. Despite the surprising sunshine that had greeted them as they broke free of the treeline, she couldn't shake the cold that has slipped in with her vision. She couldn't know how soon the fighting would break out, and the thought of an attack coming while she and the villagers were so helplessly out in the open... Well that was not a thought she wanted to see become reality.

She knew the knights would do their best to protect the people. The fact that those warriors, specifically Arthur she guessed from the stories she remembered, had brought everyone from the Roman estate meant they felt at least some small responsibility for the people's welfare. But so few men against the hoards she had seen? Without some aid, it could only end in a massacre.

She glared up at the wall and the Roman soldiers who lazed about on duty, or pretending to be. They certainly did not seem willing to aid the tired peasants as they shuffled toward the massive gate. No, the soldiers did nothing.

It was a small crowd of unarmed folk who dared to venture out past the safety of the gates, scurrying to lead and support the refugees on to safety. Aisling was tickled to see a woman was clearly in charge of the operation; the strident redhead was ordering men, women, soldiers, and Sarmatians about with little to no deference to rank or file. Aisling was also amused to see that the knights seemed to expect and near enjoy her behavior, trading jokes and banter as she waited impatiently for everyone to clear the Wall.

Only once the massive gate had been closed again, did the feisty woman join the group that now trudged the rest of the distance to the fortress itself. Aisling was distracted by just how much farther the poor people around them had to go. Guilt trickled in; she really wasn't _that_ injured... she could get down and let someone else up in her place... She settled her hands to slide down, ignoring Dagonet's quiet order to stay seated. It was another, decidedly less quiet order that she was forced to listen too.

"And what the bloody hell do you think you're doin', miss?" She lifted her head to see the comical sight of Bors leading his horse beside the wagon. Now perched up in the saddle was the redheaded woman and no less than three small children clinging to her. She blinked, and then focused on the woman who was glaring down at her. "Are you or are you not injured?"

"Well yes, but-"

"No buts, girl. I've 11 children of my own, and I know an excuse comes after a but. Now, did you or did you not fall into a frozen lake?"

"She did."

"Don' think you've a right to talk, Dagonet, not after frightenin' your brother that way." Aisling hid a grin, and nearly giggled when Bors shot her a stealthy wink.

"Now, Van, he's apologized already." The redhead sniffed.

"I suppose. But he'd best not do it again." Dagonet chuckled and Lucan joined in.

"I promise, Vanora. I will not venture onto a frozen lake facing Saxons with only an ax again."

"Not _only_ an ax You had a bow as well." Aisling covered her mouth with a squeak as Vanora raised an eyebrow and glared. It lasted only a moment though; then she was chuckling along with the men while Aisling blushed rapidly. She struggled to find her composure. What was it about these blasted knights that made her lose her bloody mind and loose her tongue? She blushed again as she realized only after Bors burst into raucous laughter that she'd such that out loud.

Vanora only smiled slightly down at her, kindness and a wry understanding in her eyes.

"You'll grow accustomed to it, miss. They seem to have that affect on most of us."

"Us?" Aisling asked shyly, wanted desperately to connect with the striking woman. Here again, in the space of bare hours, she had met yet another woman that she felt could be a friend

"The fairer sex, of course." Vanora grinned, inviting Aisling to join in on the joke. "They either drive us clear out of Briton trying to escape them or drive us to giddy distraction trying to get close to them. Or both." Aisling grinned as Bors nodded sagely.

"No need to guess which my Van did, eh girl?"

"Both?" Vanora nodded sharply.

"More of the former, though I just could not seem to get away." He grinned proudly.

"Course not. I'm no fool to let you run off." Aisling smiled softly at the obvious affection between the pair.

They weren't a match she would have expected. In truth, she would have thought the lovely woman would have a variety of men vying for her affection. At first glance, it was hard to see what would have attracted her to Bors of all the knights. Then more children scampered over, and he welcomed them with a boisterous shout for Aisling to meet his "other bastards." The children actually laughed aloud at his words, and then threw themselves gleefully at their father. He handed the reins up to Vanora and then tossed one lad over his shoulder, and lifted another up onto his back. He had a wide open grin on his face, sharing his joyful pride over his brood with the world at large.

"Vanora is no fool, either." Dagonet's quiet comment had her looking back up at the other woman, who was watching her lover fondly. No, Aisling did not think Vanora a fool to cling to her Bors. She lapsed into silence as she watched the oldest knight with his family.

A flash of red at the corner of her eye turned into the form of Arthur's cape as he rode slowly up and down the line of wagons and peasants, offering a few words of encouragement to each as he passed. Aisling smiled, albeit a bit nervously, as he approached the end of the line and the wagon containing Dagonet, Lucan, and herself. She wasn't sure what he might think of her. He was Roman and likely Christian, and she was Briton and a Seer which for many was synonymous with 'witch.' He reined his mount back to match pace with Bors' lover-and-children laden horse, and then made a careful study of Aisling before speaking.

"I hope you are well, lady." His voice was calm and collected, and clearly demanded an answer. She swallowed.

"I am, my lord. Your knight saved my life." She blanched. "Knights, I mean. I...I owe all of you my life." Arthur's face showed just a hint of interest at her slip, but then the expression was gone so fast she hoped she'd imagined it.

"You saved one of our own. There is no debt between us." He turned to Vanora. "She will need lodgings, as will the others. Can I entrust them to your capable hands?" Vanora rolled her eyes.

"And who else would you trust them to? No, you leave them to me. Though where we'll find the room, I don' know..." She began muttering as if to herself, and noting that the men who paid it no mind, Aisling ignored it as well. She looked ahead and noticed the lead wagon had finally reached its destination, and she smiled again.

"I hope you find the fortress to your liking, lady." She turned back to the Roman commander, and Arthur nodded once. "Welcome to Hadrian's Wall."

**Hope you liked it! BTW, feel free to tell me if you think Aisling is getting out of character.. she's been a bit up and down from my point of view, and while it makes sense to me (considering the craziness she's been through) I want to be sure it makes sense to all of you as well. Thanks!**


	7. Chapter 6: The Bishop

**Whee! Another chapter, despite severe tendonitis in my wrists and overtime at work leading to very little writing time. What can I say- apparently the muse is on ****y'alls**__**side... not mine lol. **

**Anyway, yada yada, I own nothing but my OCs, yada yada... **

**Enjoy!**

Though the rest of the refugees were gently lead off toward an open air courtyard ringed by wooden tables, the knights and the pair of wagons with the Roman family and the injured respectively continued on through the sheltered town. Aisling forced herself not to gape about like a village fool. It took effort; she had never seen so much stone in her life, even in all the wandering she and her mother had done in her early life and after their capture. The Wall itself had been intimidating, but the village and fortress were just as imposing in a different way. This fortress was built by men, and even all of nature's fury might not easily tear it down. She suppressed a shiver; it was unnatural in the most literal sense.

The wagons finally, _finally, _rolled to halt at the edge of what looked to be a paddock and stables. Aisling, grateful to be free of the rolling prison, eased down from her seat before Dagonet or Bors' bossy lover could stop her. She shifted to the side to give the others enough space to climb out, and then allowed herself to look around. She tensed as she realized it was not only the knights scattered across the open area.

Roman soldiers lined one side of the open space flanking a finely dressed man, and she guessed he must be Roman himself. At least to her eyes, he clearly seemed to assume everyone and everything should offer him the upmost respect and privildge. She shrunk back against the wagon as he shifted in her direction; she's seen the same glint in his eyes on the eyes of any one of Cerdic's warriors who thought they could sneak a taste of their leader's slaves without him knowing. Only unlike those warriors, she doubted the Roman had anyone he feared might stop him from taking what he wanted.

She was saved by the occupants of the other wagon, or more accurately the carriage. As the young Roman man and his mother clambered down from their cushions, the slimy Roman's face switched to a jovial mask. He cried aloud a name, Alecto, she thought, and tried to embrace the younger man. Alecto only slid to the side, slightly sheltering his mother; his face held the same disgust and contempt Aisling felt roiling inside her. She hadn't expected that: as far as she'd known, most Romans would at least pretend to stand together in the face of the "lesser" races.

Well, all Romans but Arthur, of course. And perhaps that was the cause of the young noble's choice to shy away from his countryman. Aisling doubted it had taken very long into their retreat from the Roman estate before Alecto had fallen prey to the hero worship that everyone seemed to succumb to around Commander Castus.

Everyone except the other Roman, though he tried in vain to hide it. Arthur didn't bother. He made his disdain very clear.

"Bishop Germanius. Friend of my father." With those surprisingly spiteful words, Arthur turned his back on the bishop dismissively and reached to help Guinevere down from the Roman's carriage.

Aisling swallowed as the bishop's eyes traced the lithe young woman in much the same way they had done so with Aisling's own body. She didn't need a vision to know this man was not one she wanted to be near. She moved away from the wagon, feeling it might be wise to keep close to the knights. Dagonet was already among them, leaning heavily on his brother's shoulders, and he smiled over at her as she hobbled closer. Unfortunately, his attention drew the bishop's, and once again Aisling felt herself pinned by the Roman's unwanted stare.

"Arthur, I see you have brought more than just Alecto back with you. How... fortunate for them, yes?" He took a step toward her. "You, girl. Who is your family? When we return to Rome, I would be glad to help you find them."

Aisling was saved from having to answer him, which was just as well as she doubted she'd be able to hide her contempt at his assumption that she must be Roman since she wore a Roman gown.

"She is under my protection, Germanius. As are all of the other refugees." Arthur was coming to her rescue again, or at least to Guinevere's. It didn't not escape Aisling's notice that the knight's commander had kept a proprietary hand on the other woman's shoulder. Obviously, Guinevere would not need to work too hard to gain her Arthur's loyalty. Of course, that did very little for Aisling at the moment. As soon as Arthur made it clear that Guinevere was not to be touched, the bishop's eyes darted back to Aisling.

"Refugees? I have not seen them," Germanius said, as if he cared at all for the peasants. His focus, however was not on the awkward conversation he was making with Arthur. As his gaze made her skin crawl, Aisling began to wonder if she should throw herself bodily at the little cluster of knights in an attempt to scare the slime away.

She didn't have to. Almost as one, the cluster began to spread out into a rough defensive line, first shielding Bors' family who huddled near the horses. Then, without any sign that he felt the bishop a threat, Tristan ambled over to stand directly in front of Aisling. His manner was completely casual and, she guessed, inscrutable. But from where she stood behind him, she could make out the tense set of his shoulders and the easy stance of his feet. If Tristan needed to move into action, he was ready.

The bishop, apparently realizing his prize was out of reach of the moment, moved on to some ceremony about a box of papers and freedom that Aisling didn't understand. She didn't try to understand it, frankly. She was too distracted by the man in front of her. Was he really, willingly protecting her? Again? Twice before he had come to her rescue, but those had been the sort of moments where it might have merely been his instincts that lead him. This, this had to be a conscious, deliberate, and deadly serious choice, despite the careless air he was projecting. Extremely deadly, she mused. From her vantage point, she'd seen the faint imprints of no less than three daggers hidden beneath the scout's clothes, and considering the source, she thought it likely there were more that she couldn't see.

Aisling forced herself to relax despite the Romans, despite her steadily throbbing leg, and despite the heat she imagined she could feel on her skin from the scout's closeness. The last was easily the hardest to ignore. It was a relief in more ways than one when the bishop finally strode away with Alecto and his silent mother trailing reluctantly behind him. The palpable tension in the air dropped abruptly, as each of the knights slowly let down their guard. All but Tristan, she was amused to see: his shoulders did not relax in the slightest. Once the guards were out of sight, he half turned to look about the paddock, still as watchful of his brothers in arms as if they were still beyond the Wall.

Aisling wondered suddenly if the other men knew just how protective their scout was of them. She wondered if _he_ knew.

It was that thought that somehow gave her a moment of courage. As he began to walk back to his horse, she reached out and laid a careful hand on his arm. He froze, looking down at her hand and then following the line of her arm and shoulder up to her face. She knew she was trembling; it was, she realized, the first time she'd dared to touch him. For that matter, for all that he'd manhandled her about, dragging her from the ice and back into the wagon, it was the first time they had touched in anything but a momentary crisis. It was a heady feeling, one she wasn't sure she knew how to handle.

Tristan cocked his head at her, and she realized with a start that she had been staring and likely for longer than she'd admit. She swallowed and ducked her head, fighting against her sudden shyness. She took a breath, and brought her eyes back to his face.

"Thank you." The corner of his lip twitched, and he reached with his free hand to gently remove hers from his arm. She wondered if she dared to imagine his fingers had stroked hers softly as he released them.

"No need for thanks." Then he walked away, striding to his horse purposefully and leading it further into the stables. Aisling averted her eyes, hoping the heat in her cheeks was not quite so flaming red as they felt. She hoped this moment, at least, had gone unnoticed by the knights; she did not want Lancelot harassing her again. And it would be her he chose to pester; it seemed unlikely he'd dare needle Tristan. She breathed a sigh of relief as the men gathered the reins of their respective mounts and followed Tristan. She smiled slightly to see little Lucan leading Dagonet's huge mount under the knight's watchful eyes.

The smile shrank as she heard a knowing chuckle from behind her. She turned slowly and saw not only Vanora, but Guinevere as well, eying her speculatively.

"Now, child, is there somewhat you'd like to share?" Aisling shook her head, fighting back a giggle. It was going to be interesting spending time with women again; she'd almost forgotten the joy of gossip. Vanora waited a moment, as if to see if the younger woman would crack under the pressure of her eyes, but then she shrugged. "We'll get it out of her eventually."

Guinevere nodded wickedly.

"Indeed. She already knows my secrets. Turnabout would be only fair." Aisling huffed, and started to playfully storm off. The sudden step was her undoing, however; her weight landed heavily on her injured leg, and she gasped at the sudden pain. Vanora was beside her in an instant offering an arm.

"Damn, I'd nearly forgot that leg of yours. We'd best get you to the healer's quarters. You and Dag, both. Dagonet!" she yelled, startling Aisling with the sudden volume.

"What woman?" Predictably it was Bors who answered, and Aisling half expected Vanora to take him to task for the tone of his voice. Instead she only rolled her eyes, and called for him to bring his brother and the boy out. There was some grumbling, of course, but the brothers came out as ordered after only a moment, Lucan clutching Dagonet's hand. Vanora looked over the little group the six of them made, and then nodded sharply.

"Right then. Let's be off, yeah?" She all but dragged Aisling away, and she had only the time for one last brief look over her shoulder back toward the stable.

**Hope you liked it, my dears! huggle***


	8. Chapter 7: The Warhorse

**Sorry about the wait again my dears! I definitely want to apologize that it's been a month since my last update. My wrists really haven't gotten any better sadly, and that really slowed me down. That being said, if this chapter seems a little choppy or doesn't flow well, it's because I've had to write it in fits and starts over the last month instead of all at once like I usally do. Also, this has NOT been betad. Askita is in the middle of settling in after moving to a new state, and so is without internet. Thus, any mistakes are totally mine. Be gentle lol.**

**Oh yeah! Speaking of Askita: she made me a totally awesome banner for Hawk Visions! I've got a link posted on my profile. You should go check it out!**

Vanora led her charges into the fortress itself and down a rush-lit corridor to a room near one of the inner walls. She pushed the heavy door open, and Aisling and the others walked or limped in as they were able. It was a rather dark room, Aisling thought, and every bit as oppressive as she'd felt the Wall to be. She perched gingerly on the edge of a low cot, while Lucan and Bors eased his brother down onto another.

"Dagonet, where are the-" Vanora waved the words away as she apparently found what she was looking for. She took several rolls of bandages down from a shelf, and set them on the table near the hearth. "Aideen is out with a birthing, Dag, so I fear you are the only healer in residence. Now, I must be off to settle the other new comers, and Bors will help me. Will you two be alright on your own, then?" Dagonet nodded slightly.

"We will be fine, Vanora." Aisling wasn't so sure considering his wounds, but she shrugged to herself. They would just muddle along as best they could. Vanora did not look terribly convinced either, but she bustled Bors toward the door regardless.

"Come along, lad. Let's get you something to eat," Vanora called. Lucan looked toward Dagonet who nodded at him. "Well come on." He shuffled by Vanora and out the door, and she followed after another sharp nod to the room. The door closed behind her, and Dag let out what could only be a sigh of relief. Aisling cast him a quizzical look, and he chuckled weakly.

"Vanora can be a bit overwhelming." Aisling bit her lip to hold back a laugh; bless him, the poor man looked rather exhausted by the thought. She opened her mouth to respond, but the sound of the door opening slowly distracted her. She was further distracted by the identity of the person who entered the room. It was the Roman woman whose dress Aisling now wore… The Roman woman who, Aisling could not help but notice, seemed only to have eyes for Dagonet. The woman spoke, her voice soft, but slightly hoarse as if from disuse.

"I thought… Alecto thought, perhaps, you might need the aid of another healer." She suddenly seemed to notice Aisling, and the look of faint hope on her face was quickly wiped away. "If I am unwelcome…"

"No, of course not." Aisling quickly cut in, having caught a brief glimpse of disappointment flicker across her giant's face as the woman mentioned leaving. "I know very little of the healing arts. Your help would be quite welcome." The Roman woman smiled softly.

"I am Fulcinia." Aisling introduced herself, her eyes flickering back and forth from the other woman and back to Dagonet. Much to Aisling's surprise, Fulcinia moved to her first, kneeling to examine the bandages on her calf. "These will need to be changed, and your wound cleaned." She did both, her hands steady and sure. She also added a salve from a jar she produced from a pocket of her dress. "This should hasten the healing," she explained quietly. Aisling didn't know if it actually would, but it certainly eased the sting of the wound. Fulcinia re-bandaged it carefully, and then rose gracefully and turned her attention to Dagonet. Aisling worried her lip for a moment, and then stood carefully startling the other pair in the room.

"Forgive me, but all the stone around us… it feels un-natural. I think I will find my way to the tavern. Vanora's mention of food sounds rather nice." Dagonet nodded, a hint of gratitude in his eyes. Aisling smiled back at him and bobbed a clumsy curtsy to Fulcinia, then she slipped through the door and back down the hall the way Vanora had brought her the first time.

She reached the outer door and paused to catch her breath. Her leg didn't hurt quite as much, but it was still weaker than she was used to. She leaned against the wall and wondered which way to go. She hadn't thought about the fact that she didn't actually know her way to the tavern, nor that she wasn't particularly hungry; she'd just wanted a way to leave the room gracefully. She bit her lip again, hoping it had been the right decision. There was clearly something simmering between her giant and the solemn Roman, but she worried perhaps she should not had encouraged it. Fulcinia would go on to Rome with her son Alecto; from what Aisling knew of the Romans, that was the woman's only likely course. Her son was now her head of household, and even if he allowed her to stay in Briton with the threat of the Saxons closing in, as a noble she would never be allowed to consort with a Sarmatian.

She closed her eyes with regret; her gentle giant was destined for heartache. There was little she could do to ease that coming pain. At least, she had allowed him a few precious moments with Fulcinia. She opened her eyes and shook her head at herself. When had she grown so protective of the large knight? She shook off the thought and pushed away from the wall, stepping off into the street. She turned to the left and then right, trying to decide on a direction and then _two guards follow the alley way narrows no don't Romans take what they-_

She shook her head and turned to hurry in the opposite direction. It didn't take her too long to realize she was headed back toward the stables. She shrugged. It was the only other place she'd been, and it seemed like as good of a destination as any other. Once she reached it, she entered through the door she'd seen the knights go through.

She smiled, the scent of hay and horses seeming comforting. So too was the building: only wood and bright and airy, it was everything the fortress had not been. She drifted down past each stall, barely pausing as she looked over each powerful horse. She came to a halt before a big gray, and she laughed that she had ended up there, before the scout's mount in particular. She almost moved closer, but an intimidating snort from the large horse convinced her to stay where she was.

"I thought you were at the healer's." She nearly jumped out of her skin, despite the fact that the voice was going to be one she would recognize anywhere. Tristan eyed her, his face faintly disapproving. "You shouldn't be here alone, eh? It's not safe." She blinked.

"There is no one else here. My Sight would have warned me had someone meant me harm."

"I meant the horses." She blinked again, surprised. He stepped closer, and his mount lifted his head over the stall door to nudge him sharply. "They're warriors, bred for it. Once trained, they don't take kindly to strangers. Not unless trained to."

"Oh," she said softly. "But before at the lake… Gawain took me up on his mount, didn't he?" Tristan laughed once.

"Yeah, well. That one is like his rider, friendlier than he should be." He glanced at her, hips lips twitching as if to invite her to join in on the joke. She couldn't help but grin back.

"And yours then? How is he like his rider?" His lips twitched again, but he avoided the question by reaching out and pulling her closer to the stall.

"Listen: 'Mellon.'" The foreign word rolled of his tongue and she repeated it hesitantly. He shook his head. "No. Mellon." The horse bobbed his head and snorted again, and she guessed it must be some kind of command. "That word tells him you are a friend. Now, again." She tried again, and this time Tristan nodded approvingly and tugged his mount's halter pulling him closer. "Good, now breathe in his face. Give him your scent." She did as he instructed, feeling more than a bit silly. The big gray shook his head and then whuffled back in her face in response.

"Mellon," she repeated again, with a slow smile. She reached out carefully, then at Tristan's nod, she lowered her hand to stroke the horse's muzzle softly. "Yes, mellon. That's a good lad."

She looked back up toward Tristan, and her breath caught in her throat. His gaze was again focused on her, and there was something in her eyes that pulled at everything within her. He reached out a hand very slowly and brushed a lock of her hair out of her face. She trembled, and tried to speak. Before anything coherent could escape her lips though, a sudden sound interrupted the heady silence and spoiled the moment completely.

Her stomach growled. Loudly. Tristan's shoulders shook as he tried to suppress a chuckle. Aisling didn't bother trying to hide her own laughter. It burst from her nearly as boisterously as her stomach had growled. Tristan dropped his hand from her face.

"You haven't eaten, eh?" She shook her head ruefully. Tristan gave his mount one last pat, and then turned toward the exit. "Come, then. Vanora will have enough for everyone. Always does." She also gave the horse a final stroke, and then he led her out and to the tavern.

**Welp there is was! BTW, I'll give a drabble request to the first person to correctly identify the crossfandom reference I used here! **


	9. Chapter 8: The Tavern

**I'm back! Sorry about the wait as always, and hey - at least this isn't as long a wait as it could be from me right? Anyway, my wrists are only so-so which killed my muse by a lot, plus I had to decide how to approach this next section.**

**I guess I should warn you that this chapter has one of hte MASSIVE changes I'm making to the movie cannon, mostly because really.. half a day to prepare for battle and the Saxons can force march without ever sleeping but still stopping to light fires and hang out? Yeah, that timeline just didn't make sense to me. So just be prepared! And hey look! It is at least, a nice long chapter to reward yall for your patience!**

**Obligatory: no I don't own the cannon info and blah blah blah.**

Chapter 8: The Tavern

She followed the knight down the road with a bit of difficulty. Aisling doubted he was used to slowing his steps for anyone, and the swift pace was harder on her leg than she would have liked. Still, she tried to keep up, not wanting her scout to see her as weak. Wait, was he actually her scout now? The thought made her stumble slightly, and it was enough to draw Tristan's attention to the fact that she lagged behind.

"Too fast?" She grimaced at his question, not wanting to answer, but he slowed anyway, waiting for her to reach his side. "Keep close. It's not far, eh?"

She nodded, and he started off again, this time his steps carefully kept to her own halting pace. To his credit, he gave no sign of impatience; if anything he seemed to enjoy their slow journey through the fortress, looking at the passing villagers and Romans with a faint superior interest. Aisling watched his busy eyes as much as she could, wanting the distraction from her aching leg. Together, they passed the entrance to the fortress that lead to the healer's quarters, and she wondered idly if Fulcinia was still therein.

Then, as they passed a tiny side street, another distraction made itself known. There, lingering in the entrance to the alley was a pair of Roman soldiers. Aisling shuddered as she realized she recognized their faces from her earlier vision. The taller of the pair suddenly focused on her face and grinned nudging his neighbor. The pair began to step toward her, and her mind went white, panic merging her vision and reality. Instinctively, she shrank against the tall knight at her side.

She swallowed a shriek as a strong arm snaked about her shoulder and pulled her even closer. She glanced up to see Tristan staring impassively at the two Romans. She glanced back at the advancing pair and saw that they had paused only slightly. Tristan's hand slid up and down her arm, the movement possessive in a way that silently thrilled her. The Romans seemed to consider for a moment more, and then the shorter of the two tugged at the other man's arm, drawing him away with a final sneer.

"Come," Tristan said quietly. He turned away from the retreating Romans, his hand still stroking her arm gently. He kept his arm around her, moving it only to grip her more firmly about the waist as her leg faltered. Aisling welcomed the weight and support of his arm the longer they walked. She worried she had grossly underestimated her own strength, but damned if she could stand to appear any weaker in front of his silent support.

It was to her great relief that the open courtyard and tables came finally into view. The refugees were clustered about each of the tables, eating with the determined will that only a long period of hunger could cause. Given what little she had heard of the Roman estate, she didn't doubt this had been the first full meal any of the villagers had eaten in some time. Tristan half led, half carried her to a table populated by the other knights and a few others she didn't recognize. At a sharp nod from Tristan, the table's occupants moved over to leave a small open space at the end of one bench.

"Sit," he commanded softly, and deposited her with no little grace. As the other knights chuckled at their brother's remark, she wondered if she should take offense to the tone. She shook her head and smiled at the other men softly; it would take more effort to respond than she possessed at that moment. Instead she watched as Tristan strode over to an open kitchen at the back of the courtyard to speak softly with Vanora who absently handed him a pair of bowls and a loaf of bread. He came back and settled beside her, setting one of the bowels and a chunk of bread in front of her. "Here, eat."

This time she simply ignored the chuckles and knowing glances from the men around her, choosing instead to focus on the bowl in front of her. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of rich stew. Her stomach growled again, reminding her that it had been quite a while since _she _had last eaten, let alone anything that smelled this good. She fell to eating with a will equal to that of the villagers, slurping down the stew with little regard to manners, pausing only to tear off pieces of bread to dip into the stew before gobbling those down too. She barely noticed as more bread, then slices of an apple, and then yet another bowl of stew appeared steadily in front of her. She simply ate her way through each of the offerings as they arrived. Only after she'd finished the second bowl, did she finally push it away with a contented sigh. There was an odd silence around her, and she looked up to see the other knights staring at her with what seemed to be a disturbed sort of awe. She blinked and blushed, as Gawain broke the silence.

"I don't believe I've _ever_ seen someone manage more than one bowl of Vanora's stew. Let alone with an entire loaf of bread. Great gods, girl, where did you put it all?" She ducked her head, hiding a giggle.

"I was hungry," she muttered. That set off Bors who laughed lustily, and that seemed to set all the other members of the table to laughing as well. Only Tristan was silent beside her, nibbling on an apple of his own. She nudged him slightly and nodded at the remains of the feast he'd set before her. "Thank you."

He only nodded, but as he glanced away she swore she saw the very tips of his ears turn red beneath his dark hair. So the impassive knight blushes, she thought to herself, and she hid a grin at the thought. Full and drowsy with it, she let herself sag against him slightly and simply watched quietly as conversation and good-natured bickering flowed around the table. Guinevere appeared at Vanora's side helping serve the refugees in a surprising show of humility, and she paused at Aisling's side, offering her a flagon of watered wine with a smile before moving on to fill the cups of the rest of the men. Others wandered by: young women who flirted with one knight or charmed another in turn, skittish villagers who eagerly sought Arthur's eyes and quiet words, and of course, Vanora's brood of children who climbed all over their honorary uncles and their father with very little regard for the fact that these men were brutal warriors that most people would fear. The joy of the children soothed what little trepidation she might have had left regarding the scene she found herself in, and she let the sound of the voices lull her until she slipped down to rest her arms on the table and her head on her arms. A hand ghosted over her hair, and she smiled softly as her eyes slipped closed.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she was gently shaken awake, but she noticed night was approaching and torches had been lit around the edge of the courtyard. The knights were gone, the space beside her now empty of Tristan's comforting presence. Vanora, who'd woken her, smiled down and helped her to her feet.

"Here then, let's get you to bed, child." She straightened the younger woman's dress absently, and Aisling felt herself choke up for a moment as Vanora's actions reminded her of her own mother. Vanora didn't seem to notice though. "We've a room for you, but you'll be sharin' it with Guinevere."

"That's fine," Aisling whispered, sleep and the echoes of grief still weighing her. Guinevere appeared beside her and took her arm.

"Come on; Vanora showed me where to go." Once again, Aisling allowed herself to be lead away. They didn't have far to go; Guinevere led her just behind the tavern to a small building. They went inside down another hall to a door that opened into a tiny room with a single bed. Aisling was glad to see the room itself was made of wood, much as the stable had been. It made the claustrophobic room much less so, especially when she compared it to the oppressive healer's quarters.

The two young women stripped to their shifts and curled up together, both too tired to speak more than a few words. Aisling allowed herself a moment of luxury at the feel of a bed, an actual bed with a straw mattress and blankets and a real tiny pillow and only one person to share it with. The fact that Guinevere was someone she could trust only made the room feel that much safer. She shared one last smile with her friend, Guinevere truly was a friend now, she realized, and then she let her eyes drift closed. She was not quite asleep when – _fists like thunder against the door not a request the Bishop requires I will not be-_

Aisling flung herself awake sitting straight up with a jerk of fright. She woke Guinevere, or perhaps, she too was still just barely awake for she realized what must be happening to Aisling almost immediately.

"What is it? What did you see?" Aisling clambered out of the bed, rushing to wrap herself in a blanket, tossing another to Guinevere

"We have to go. Too many people saw where we went, and the Bishop..." She trailed off, but the grim look on Guinevere's face said she knew all too well what danger the Bishop likely represented. They hurried out of the room and back down the hall and out into the night. There, they stood for a moment, before Guinevere suddenly squared her shoulders.

"I... I have something I would do. Will you be alright?" Aisling nodded, not needing to wonder too hard about where the other woman might go this time of night in naught but her shift and a blanket.

"I will be fine." She squeezed Guinevere's hand. "Be careful, my friend."

Then Aisling turned and walked away, keeping to the shadows and watching for the Roman messenger she had seen in her vision. It would not help her if she escaped that tiny room only to stumble across him out here. She felt a shiver of foreboding run down her spine, and trusting it, she ducked into a side street. Sure enough, the messenger and guards she feared strode quickly past, intent on fetching the Bishop's prize. She waited only a moment, and then scurried out, focused on putting some distance between them before the Roman men discovered both women were missing. She darted around a side street and stumbled, nearly falling. A hand caught and she wrenched her arm free, turning to try to defend herself.

"Well this is unexpected," a voice drawled, and she let herself breathe a sigh of relief as she recognized both the voice and the figure standing before her. Lancelot raised his eyebrows. "I thought you had retired for the night." He surveyed her lack of dress and his voice went sly. "Or were you planning to retire with someone else?" She glared.

"Damn you... I'm trying _not _to be forced to do just that." She shot a worried look over her shoulder, hoping that Lancelot's voice had not carried too far. She turned back and caught him staring at her with a concerned expression.

"Dare I ask what you meant be that, lady?" She swallowed.

"The Bishop _requests_ company," she spat, bitterness in her voice. His eyes darkened, and he glanced back over her shoulder, as if he too expected someone to be following her down the street. Then he glanced back and surveyed her carefully.

"Well then, I suggest you better come with me." He grinned then and offered her his arm, playing the role of the gentleman to the hilt. It immediately put her back up, and she vaguely remembered one of the serving women joking about Lancelot's womanizing ways. She eyed his offered arm, and he winced. "Lady, I seek only to offer you aid. I wouldn't dally with a woman my brother has chosen." He shook his head. "Particularly not that brother."

Her heart jumped slightly, but she shoved it down and studied him. She couldn't be sure what it was, but there was a sincerity hidden in his eyes, buried beneath the swagger. She took a deep breath, and then after another glance over her shoulder, Aisling gingerly took the offered arm. Lancelot smiled, this time one that seemed honest, and he led her carefully through the streets toward the Great Wall and then up a stair.

At the top, she was somewhat surprised to see all of the knights but Arthur and Dagonet strewn between the stair and the platform at the top of the Wall itself. The appearance of Lancelot and Aisling caused a sudden hush to fall over the knights, and Tristan went still, his eyes on her hand resting on Lancelot's arm. She removed it carefully and walked to stand against the Wall. She heard Lancelot approach the others and softly explain her presence, and she tried not to see how the knights' faces went from suspicious to anger and pity. She turned away to look out into the night. She felt more than heard Tristan approach to stand beside her, and without a word, he carefully pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and more tightly around her.

"So, lady," she heard Galahad ask, "where is yon Guinevere?"

She kept her face as carefully blank as flickers of _skin and scars and we cannot know_ flashed before her eyes.

"She is making a choice," she said quietly.

"What choice?"

She answered without thinking, half turning and her eyes flicking sidelong to Lancelot.

"The right one. For herself and for her people." For a moment, dark eyes met hers, and then they both looked away. She turned back to stare out over the Wall, content to lean there silently beside Tristan as the other men talked quietly amongst themselves. She had nearly fallen asleep where she stood when a single flicker of light came into being out in the field below them. She straightened and exchanged a questioning glance with the silent scout beside her. Below them, another fire blinked into existence, then another, then dozens, then more, until torches lit the field like a sky of stars.

The others crowded behind them, taking in the sight with grim faces. Tristan touched a hand to her arm.

"What do you see?" She turned to him, her eyes dark with knowledge as one torchbearer strode forward alone.

"My people," she answered. "The Merlin has come."

***Cue dramatic music here* There it is guys! Hope you liked it! BTW, since I never heard back from the chica who won on the drabble request, I'm going to be crazy and offer a 100-200 word King Arthur-centric (duh) drabble to EVERYONE who comments on this chapter. Just make sure that you give me you prompt/request when you comment, k?**


	10. Chapter 9: The Merlin

**I'm back! How's that for a better time between chapters that usual aye? I'm trying at least! BTW, I've posted the first chapter of that set of drabble requests I offered last chapter. I have to say though, this defintely taught me that people really don't read the author's notes at the end of the chapter. I mean sereiously, I got 10 reviews, and only 3 of you requested a drabble. I will still offer them, BTW. Just let me know what you would like in your review!**

**OH! BTW, speaking of "just posted." I also recently saw "Clash of the Titans" and was totally captivated by Mads' character Draco. Yeah yeah yeah, I know big surprise right? Anyway, I noticed there were only 4 Draco-centric fics so I ended up writing one. I'd love it if you checked it out, but be warned: it is REALLY angsty for me. Eek.**

**Nothing you recognize from the movie is mine, K?**

Chapter 9: The Merlin

The hue and cry went up for Arthur, and one of the guards hurried off to find him followed closely by Bors to fetch his brother from the healer's quarters. The others around Aisling waited in silence, each contemplating what the presence of the Woads and their leader might mean.

Merlin never moved or spoke from where he stood. It was a fearsome display of his power, Aisling thought. He was easily within the range of the Wall's bowmen, and yet, none of the nervous guards dared to attack. Aisling tugged the blanket tighter around her as if to protect herself from the angry muttering of the guards and the knights. She knew all too well what Merlin's arrival meant, knew that if her people were here then the Saxons could not be far behind. It could only be that greater threat that drove them to face the Wall, to face and perhaps even join the enemy they had fought against for centuries.

Aisling herself could not image having that kind of courage or desperation. For a moment as she heard the knights speak the distasteful word the Romans had given to her people, she wished herself elsewhere. She was so close to hating the knights in that moment, and she knew they were good men. She _knew_, but damned if she enjoyed hearing them so deride her people. She was grateful that Tristan at least had not spoken, though his silence likely held just as much disdain as the others' words. She could not bear to turn and see if it reflected on his face too. With a grunt of effort and faint annoyance, Bors appeared then, helping Dagonet up the stairs, and she managed a painful smile at her giant.

A clatter of footsteps sounded behind her and a guard shouted for the gathering crowd to make way. Arthur strode up the steps with Guinevere only steps behind him. Aisling stepped back to make room for the pair to take her place overlooking the Wall, and Tristan pulled her softly to his side and further out of his commander's path. Arthur stared down, and it was clear to Aisling at least that he didn't need Guinevere's soft whisper of "Father" to realize who stood below. The Roman stared for another moment then looked down, taking a deep breath. Then he stood straight again, turning to survey his knights and then the terrified crowd of refugees and Wall residents gathered below the steps. When he turned back, he kept his gaze away from Guinevere, but his eyes did flick to Aisling. She gazed back steadily, forcing herself to stand firm though her knees trembled under the weight of the sorrow in his eyes.

"Knights, my journey with you ends here. May God go with you." Almost as one the other men snapped to attention, their voices sounding their denial. Arthur only turned away and strode back down the stairs calling for guards to follow him to the gate, his shoulders heavy with the weight of what he'd decided. Lancelot stormed after him, and after only a moment Guinevere went as well, though Aisling couldn't be sure if it was truly to follow Arthur or to try to reach her father. That left Aisling alone again with the rest of the knights.

"This is madness," Galahad was the first to speak, and his voice was outraged. "He really means to stay here, with the Woads." He slammed his hands against the Wall, startling Aisling out of her quiet stillness. "Madness."

"Why would the Woads even dare to come here?" asked Gawain, his eyes on Aisling and clearly expecting an answer. She wanted desperately to lean against Tristan again for his silent support, but she held herself straight.

"The Saxons invade from the north, storming through their villages and their forests." Aisling met Gawain's eyes and then defiantly turned to stare the others down as well. "The Romans are the enemy, true, but the Saxons are worse." She wrapped her arms tighter around herself and shivered. "Joining our forces with yours is likely our only hope."

"_Our_ forces?" Dagonet asked quietly, and Aisling felt Tristan tense. She struggled to hide her indignance that even the scout who seemed to read her so well had somehow never guessed what her heritage must be if she was neither Saxon nor Roman. Nor it seemed had he guessed she and he might have stood on opposite sides of the war he had been fighting under the Roman command. She shook off the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach and answered her giant.

"I am Briton. My mother was a hedge witch and chose to journey to perfect her arts. We left for the continent when I was very young, but I am Briton." She considered for a moment. "Indeed I am of the Picts of the north. So yes, they are _my_ people, _our_ forces."

"So you will stay, even though the Saxons come?" Dagonet asked, but it was clear he knew what her answer would be. Still, she nodded to him, again forcing her eyes away from the silent scout beside her.

"I will stay." At her words, Dagonet pushed away from his brother's arm and came to stand before her, his eyes studying her carefully.

"I owe you my life. I will stay as well." She felt a painful relief come over her in the face of his solid support, and tears filled her eyes for a moment. Bors began to shout, but Dagonet cut him off with a curt shake of his head. "Bors, think. You wanted to stay, to raise your family here. This is home, for Vanora and your children." He gripped his brother's shoulder firmly. "It will no longer be their home if the Saxons succeed."

Bors trembled and Aisling steeled herself for him to explode in rage, but instead he shook himself. He reached up and patted his brother's hand, then looked over at the young woman in their midst.

"You think we'll succeed, girl? You see it with your witchy gifts and all?" Aisling wanted to tell him and the knights listening that they would succeed, that she had seen a future where they all lived, but she couldn't lie.

"I do not know." At her words, Galahad threw up his hands and muttered under his breath, and Gawain shook his head at the younger man's outburst. Aisling risked a glance at Tristan and found him watching her carefully. Her next words were more for him than the others. "I can't see the future when so many changes are in place. Too many choices, too many paths." She shook her head. "I don't know that we can defeat the Saxons. But we have to fight them, fight for our home and a future. Is it not _worth_ fighting for?"

"It is," Tristan anwered softly. She realized she'd been holding her breath waiting for his words, and she let it out with a shaking sigh. His eyes held hers as he spoke again. "I stay too."

Dagonet clapped him on the shoulder, and Bors let out a snort of amusement.

"Should've known you'd stay for more bloodshed, Tris. Can't keep you away from it, can you?" Bors nodded at Aisling. "Seems you got three of us fools stayin' now."

With a muttered curse Galahad shook his head and exchanged a smile that was more of a grimace with Gawain.

"You have us too." He cursed again then grinned, this time more brightly. "So, who is going to tell Arthur that we are not leaving as planned?"

The soft breath of laughter came from the scout, and then his arm was again around Aisling and she sank into it with a sigh.

"We all will. Come then." He jerked his head for the others to follow, and then led the small lethal group down the stairway and through the crowd. Then he came to a sudden halt. Arthur's man, Jols Aisling thought, was standing just past the crowd, the knights' horses saddled and ready.

"Arthur rode to the gate; I guessed you all would follow him." Bors clapped the man on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over.

"Good man! Dag, you stay here or Vanora'll have my hide."

His brother nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Aisling didn't catch what he said. She was too startled by Tristan suddenly pulling her to his mount and then tossing her up into the saddle without warning. She yelped and dragged a hand free of the blanket around her to clutch at the saddle and the horse's mane.

"Tristan..." She was relieved when he swung up behind her, his warm and solid presence pressed against her back. He wrapped an arm around her waist, blanket and all, and then took the reins in the other hand. With a click of his tongue, his mount surged forward toward the Gate, and the others were only moments behind. The horses pounded down the road between the fortress and the Gate, itself, and Aisling could only cling to Tristan's arm and pray he would not let her fall. Tristan slowed his mount as they approached the small cluster of people, and then pulled the big gray to a halt.

Arthur had turned at their approach, eyes wide in surprise. Aisling noted Lancelot hovering off to the side. It seemed he had been unable to sway his leader's thoughts, and so too had chosen to follow him instead of leaving him unguarded with the Merlin. Merlin himself stood tall and proud at Arthur's side, seeming not to notice the edgy Roman guards around them. Guinevere was stationed at his side, her manner more humble than Aisling might have expected from the often haughty woman.

Tristan and the other knights dismounted, and then he lifted Aisling down as easily as he had tossed her up. Once she was safely on the ground and had the blanket draped again around her shoulders, he took hold of his mount's reins and led both of his charges the final few feet to Arthur and Merlin. To Aisling's bemusement, it was Merlin who stepped forward.

"Well met, knights of Sarmatia and the Great Wall." His eyes drifted over each of the men and then narrowed in on Aisling, showing no concern when Tristan tensed at that attention. "Well met, Aisling, daughter of my sister." Aisling's mouth fell open.

"What?" she breathed. Guinevere came to her and took her hands, a shy smile on her face. Aisling could only stare at her, not knowing what to say.

"Forgive me for my silence, cousin. I was not certain your mother truly was the sister my father often spoke of." Merlin laid a hand upon his daughter's shoulder.

"She speaks truth, child. Morgan le Fay was my mother's daughter. You are our own." Aisling still could not speak, reeling as she was from the news that she had family alive and well and standing right in front of her. Guinevere squeezed her hands in silent support, as Merlin turned away from them and looked back at Arthur. "This is a bright morning, Arthur Castus. My niece's presence can only be a fair omen."

Guinevere released one of Aisling's hands, half turning to watch her father and lover. Aisling let her free hand drop to her side to hang free beneath the edge of the blanket. She was somehow unsurprised by the faint brush of fingers against her own, and with a shuddering sigh she slipped her hand into Tristan's unobtrusive grasp. He squeezed her hand softly in a silent sign of support and then released her.

Arthur glanced over to Aisling before turning back to the other leader.

"How so, Merlin? What does that mean for the rest of us?" Merlin spread his arms wide in a gesture of benevolence.

"She has lived among the Saxons. Our Seers saw this, and now it has come to pass." When the men still seemed unconvinced, he smiled the expression somehow strange upon his wild and imposing face. "She can speak of their ways in battle. She has seen even more of them than the Gift might show." Arthur's eyes narrowed as comprehension dawned, and he nodded slowly.

"So she has to her own displeasure. Perhaps some good will come of that captivity. So, canyou help us, lady?" Aisling gripped Guinevere's hand more firmly and nodded back; faking a confidence she didn't feel.

"I believe so, my lord. Or, at least I will tell you what I can."


	11. Chapter 10: The Forest

**So yeah I've got no excuse for the month long wait on this, but I hope to earn your forgiveness with a much longer update then normal. Plus a MASSIVE amount of emotional roller-coasterness which should be fun for your too!**

**Enjoy sweeties!**

Chapter 10: The Forest

Once Arthur had decided to take Merlin at his word, he and his knights flew into a flurry of planning and discussion that all but set Aisling's head spinning. Each of the men, and occasionally Guinevere, asked question after question, dragging information from her that she hadn't even realized she knew. Numbers, tactics, weaponry. Politics and rivalries between the ranks, tensions between Cerdic and his son. All of it seemingly inconsequential things that she'd cared nothing for in her life as mere slave and pet Seer, but now, those details she'd observed were proving vital. It was a heady thought that she might have such an influence.

It was also exhausting. As the questions finally began to slow, she sank down to rest her arms on the odd round table the knights and Merlin and a bare handful of his closest advisers and a healer were now seated at. The advisers' presence drew her attention even in through the sleep deprived haze. _They _had pressed for more of their fellows to join the little party that entered the fortress, but it had been the Merlin who insisted the others stay back beyond the wall, with the one exception of the young healer who had tended to Aisling and Dagonet with a skill that Aisling was exceedingly grateful for. It had been too much of a risk to move all of the Picti forces through the Gate now... at least not until the Roman soldiers had taken their leave. Arthur's knights would follow his lead even when it came to settling into an albeit-uneasy truce with their enemies. Most of the Romans lacked that control.

It would of course, be impossible to keep the Bishop and his men from knowing anything of the meeting that was going on under their noses, not with the gossip mill of an enclosed community like the one here at the Fortress, but their ignorance of Arthur's actual plan to stay should hold until after their forces had left in the morning. When they had left _later_ that morning, Aisling corrected her thoughts, realizing that night was probably long over. She suppressed a grimace at the thought. It would not be the first night that she had gone without sleep. Cynric had force-marched his men through the night on more than one occasion, foolish though it was, and he'd often dragged Aisling with them, hoping she would tell them their speed had won them an advantage. That it usually did just the opposite, wearing his men to exhaustion before they ever reached the battle, was not a revelation that Cynric ever seemed to grasp. Cerdic did, however. It was both a blessing and a curse. That was one of the few things that would buy the fortress time to prepare; however, it also meant that Cerdic would have his men fresh for battle.

"...scout north of the Wall." At Arthur's words, Tristan tensed beside her, that small movement drawing her attention back as the tense shouting and bickering of the knights and Merlin's men had not be able to do. Without thinking about it, she tensed a bit as well. They were sending _Tristan_ of all the knights north of the wall? Wasn't he the least likely to be seen as "not a threat" by her people? Oh that sounded like a brilliant plan, really. Tristan didn't argue however; that didn't surprise her after what she'd seen on their journey to the Wall from that hellish lake. If Arthur told him to ride, he would. It was that simple; terrifying, but simple.

"You should send Morgan's daughter with him." The adviser's voice was even and calm, but to Aisling he sounded terribly sinister. Her eyes widened and she sat up straight, staring from him to Merlin to Arthur to the man beside her. A man who'd gone even more tense beside her.

"Why?" Perhaps unsurprisingly due to Aisling's minor shock, it was not her voice that raised the question. Instead it was Arthur's solemn voice, and Aisling was painfully grateful to him. Merlin's man, Ennis she thought, turned to Arthur with a faint air of superiority that Aisling had a feeling most of the knights wanted to slap off his face.

"Any vision she had would aid our efforts, yes? As much as your scout's eyes, perhaps more."

Aisling swallowed. She did not have the gift they thought she did; she couldn't give them a definite answer. She might get a vision, true, but anything she saw would only be glimpses, fragments. Merlin had other seers, he had said so. Anyone of them would be likely to see more accurately than she. She was sure of it. Her hands shaking beneath the table, she told the others exactly that, and waited for the look of disappointment she expected to see on her uncle's face at least. Instead, there was only understanding and perhaps pity.

"Aisling, child, how many visions do you see?"

"What do you mean? How many in a day or-" A chuckle from Merlin had her closing her mouth in confusion.

"Niece, we have other seers, but they are few. And none of these has seen more than once or twice a year in their lifetimes. The last who could lay claim to a gift like yours was the mother of my mother. And she has been gone since before your birth."

"I..." She trailed off, having no idea what to say. She had never considered what heritage there might be to her gift. She'd merely thought it an odd carryover from her mother's hedgewitchery. This... this was a _legacy_. One that carried more weight than she'd expected.

Arthur rose and strode around to kneel at her side. The sheer presence of him almost made her forget for a moment the knights scattered around them, and even the scout at her side.

"Lady, can you do this?" Aisling felt she couldn't look away from him. She took a deep breath to steady herself and nodded. "Very well, Jols, get her a horse."

"I..." She stopped, embarrassed to raise yet another problem. Then she shrugged and continued apologetically "I don't know how to ride."

"I'll take her up with me." Tristan's voice was quiet, but hoarse with something she couldn't name. "Be faster than if she tried to follow." Arthur's even gaze shifted to the man behind her and then he nodded slowly.

"Go."

Arthur's command led to another rush of movement that swept Aisling along like a leaf in a gale. Within only a few moments and under Vanora's skilled hands, Aisling was all but yanked out of her borrowed shift and into a borrowed skirt, tunic, and boots and then up into the saddle of Tristan's mount almost before she knew what was happening. Tristan pulled himself up behind her, his stiff leather armor and weaponry making it far more uncomfortable for his passenger than when he'd done the same the night before. It also made her rather frighteningly aware of the fact that she herself had neither armor nor weapons, and they were going north to scout out the Saxons. Granted, she doubted she'd actually know what to do with either, but still, she was defenseless, save for the man reining the big gray around. Aisling's life was in Tristan's hands... Again.

This time she was aware as they rode through the huge gate and out into the forest beyond, aware and anxious despite Tristan's strong arm around her. She wasn't sure who she was more afraid of, Cerdic's scouts or her own people. She doubted the Picts who'd fought against Arthur and his knights would hesitate to attack if she and Tristan stumbled upon them. She hoped they might fall back once one of the supposed Roman attackers began speaking in their language. Assuming she could remember enough of her mother's language to speak to them.

Tristan wasn't speaking as they passed through the game trails in the thick trees and Aisling had yet to see with more than her eyes, so she began running through her memory, dredging up as much of her mother's tongue as she could, mouthing each word silently as it came to her. It was not an easy exercise; though her mother had made sure to teach her daughter their people's language, since they had left Britain, they'd spoken mostly Latin as the conquering Romans had made that language common. It had been more convenient to learn that language considering even some of the smaller tribes up and down the coast line knew both Latin and their own dialects. It would have made life difficult for a woman and her child traveling alone had they not been able to speak to anyone.

A shriek from above her suddenly brought her musings to a halt, and she looked up to see a hawk circling above them. She amused herself with the thought that it might somehow be the same hawk she'd seen as she marched with Cynric's men toward the frozen lake. It couldn't really be though... Could it?

Tristan lifted his right arm from her waist and held it out almost casually. With another sharp cry, the hawk drifted down to settle on his wrist. It suddenly seemed far more likely that it _was _in fact the same hawk. Aisling leaned carefully away from the bird. As intimidating as Tristan's big gray warhorse had been, this hawk was more so. The warhorse had never been a hunter. The hawk on the other hand, was every inch a predator, and Aisling worried a little at being so close to the sharp talons and beak.

"She won't hurt you." Tristan's voice reassured her quietly.

"She's beautiful. Does she have a name?"

"Mm. She does." Aisling glanced back to see his lips twitch with just a hint of mischief. "She's never told me what it is, though." She laughed a little, and Tristan chuckled softly with her. Then he clicked his tongue once to catch the hawk's attention, and then tossed her back up into the air.

Aisling watched the hawk's wings beat and then _a hawk wheels through thick oily smoke screams and blood spills fire! my brave knights- demons that is the gate to hell! a sword falls and- _She took a deep breath and almost swayed as her body suddenly remembered she was on horseback in the middle of the forest with Tristan's arm firmly around her.

"What did you see?" he asked quietly, as if knowing that this vision had been hard to see.

"War. Battle." She leaned back into him, craving the contact in the face of the madness she'd seen. Once she'd settled herself, she told him the rest of it, in as much detail as she could. She was grateful for that too; she had a feeling Tristan wouldn't forget anything she told him, however small the detail. At least one of them would be capable of giving their leaders a concrete report. When she'd finished her description, Tristan's hand stroked her waist softly.

"Are you alright?"

She considered a moment, then shook her head.

"Some of that... I've seen it before. I am afraid of those moments Afraid there is nothing I can do to change them. Afraid I _shouldn't _change them." She looked over her shoulder to see him studying her carefully.

"You won't know until it happens. There's no use in fearing it." His words were short, but the gentle tone was a comfort to her. He was right; either her visions of the battleground would come to pass, or they wouldn't. Just like with the lake, she couldn't act until the moment arrived. She opened her mouth to thank Tristan for his words, but faltered as she felt him freeze behind her. She tilted her head in a silent query. Tristan leaned forward, and his lips brushed her ear as he spoke, causing her to tremble. "Woads. They're tracking us. I'm going to circle around. Stay on the horse. He'll protect you."

Then before she could argue against the pending confrontation or the insanity of leaving her alone on the massive warhorse, Tristan had slid down from behind her and all but melted into the underbrush. Immediately the horse tensed and began to fidget beneath her, and Aisling muttered the word for friend over and over, unsure if she was trying to remind the horse or herself. She ignored the reins for fear she would tell the horse to bolt by accident, and instead clung to its mane and saddle, praying to whatever deity was listening that she would keep her seat. Then a trio of Picti warriors materialized out of the trees around her, and she found herself praying harder.

The horse pawed the ground, apparently recognizing the figures before him as enemies. One of the men, the leader she guessed by the sun-in-glory tattooed on his forehead, drew his sword and glared around, clearly well aware that Tristan haunted their footsteps. Aisling fought back her fear. She too knew that Tristan was nearby, but that was not quite the comfort it might have been. She did not want to see this turn into a bloodbath. Aisling wasn't sure she could stand the sight of him slaughtering her people; if a surety, the fragile bond between them was unlikely to survive that image. One of the other two men took a step toward her and the horse, and his lips twisted in a cruel grin. Caught between fear and concern, Aisling did the only thing that came to mind. She stood up unsteadily in the stirrups and shouted out in the language of her mother's people.

"_In the Merlin's name, I bid you halt." _The words all but tore at her throat. She'd forgotten how much harsher the Picti language was than the more liquid Latin. She cleared her throat and tried to look as if she was unafraid. The three warriors had stopped short at her words; she needed to take advantage of the moment while they were still listening.

"_Who are you to speak in the Merlin's name?"_ their leader asked, his voice angry at the very thought.

"_Aisling, daughter of Morgan Le Fay who was Merlin's sister." _Her words caught them by surprise, and the two other men began to mutter to each other, their voices too low for her to hear.

"_Lies. The Morgan died on the continent in a Saxon raid years ago." _The leader looked even more angry now, and he stalked forward a few paces. He was suddenly halted by unmistakable sound of a sword pulled from a sheath. The leader's eyes widened, and he all but bared his teeth in rage as he looked back up at Aisling. _"I know you lie. Morgan's daughter would not consort with one of our people's murderers."_

"Tristan, wait," she hissed as the tall figure stalked into view from one side of the clearing. "Please wait." She turned back to the leader. _"I am who I say. My mother and I were captured by the Saxon leader, and made his slaves. She died less than a season ago. The Saxons dragged me here, and Arthur and his knights set me free." _

Tristan stalked forward another step, and Aisling had to suppress the urge to scream at him in anger. Instead, she sought to reason with him as she was trying, and probably failing, to reason with the Picti warriors.

"Tristan, wait! We don't need bloodshed. Not here. The gods only know how close the Saxons could be." His eyes flickered to her, and she tried again. "Every warrior left alive here is one more to stand against them. Please, wait." His eyes held hers for a beat, and then he looked back toward the Picti.

"Very well. I will not attack if they don't." He nodded to the men slightly, then narrowed his gaze. "But I will kill them if they threaten you again." The matter of fact tone of his voice was somehow far more menacing than it would have been had he shouted, and Aisling prayed again she'd manage to calm these men.

One of the other two men muttered again, this time in their leader's ear. He was louder this time, and Aisling was surprised to hear him relaying Tristan's and her conversation. She hadn't realized more of Merlin's men spoke Latin. The leader's gaze took on a more speculative look.

"_You speak of war with the Saxons." _

Aisling nodded slowly. _"Arthur and Merlin have made a truce. Rome is leaving this land, but the Saxons remain. Arthur and his knights have pledged to stay and fight alongside our people." _

The leader bared his teeth again in disgust, but after a long look toward Tristan, he lowered his sword. Then he spoke, and the other man translated his words into the common Latin, though by the look on his face, he quite loathed to speak the language.

"_I do not know that I believe you."_ The leader sneered as Tristan visibly tensed at the translation. _"I have heard Merlin is calling for warriors at the Wall. I had not thought it would be to defend instead of attack."_

Aisling shrugged, tired with the battle of words, and determined to end it on her terms. She spoke Latin again, unwilling to leave Tristan out of the conversation any longer now that she knew one of the others would understand her.

"Believe or do not. But Merlin _is _at the Wall. We were sent to scout out the Saxons approach and report back by nightfall." Unspoken was the threat that if she and Tristan failed to report, the truce might begin to unravel. The leader grimaced; clearly that threat had been understood. "So," she asked, "what will you do?"

There was a long painful silence, and then he cast her a mocking salute.

"_We go to the Wall." _He cast a last dark glare at Tristan then ordered his men to fall back. _"I will remember this moment, Morgan's daughter. Do not think I will forget that you stood with that knight."_

Aisling watched him slip into the forest after his men, and felt a sigh of relief force itself past her lips. She sagged back down in the saddle, stroking the big gray's neck softly to soothe both him and herself. She'd almost calmed her racing heart when Tristan's voice broke the silence and set her off balance once again.

"That one's dangerous. Should have let me kill him." Aisling froze and she stared at Tristan who seemed to take her look as a question. "That hate. He won't let it go."

A wave of painful rage that had been building since she'd heard him call the others mere "Woads" welled up inside of her, and without thinking she let it fly.

"And what of you then? Your hate for _my _people? Will you let that go or should I have let _them_ kill _you?_"

Tristan's eyes went wide at her words, and for once his emotions were written clearly on his face. Shock and anger and pain stared back at her, and she almost cringed and begged Tristan to forget she'd spoken. Still, another part of her, the part that railed against Cerdic's insistence that her mother's people were nothing more than half-people deserving of disdain and death, straightened her spine and held Tristan's gaze. He looked away first, but not soon enough for her to miss to glimpse of defeat and hopelessness slide across his face. He turned his back to her, and lifted his hand up to his face. If he'd been another man, a weaker man, he might have been hiding tears, she thought, but it seemed unlikely for the man before her. He rubbed his face once more, and then turned back.

"We need to move out." With those words, he was back to the inscrutable scout, all traces of emotion gone from his face. She sighed and waited for him to swing up behind her in the saddle in silence. They had not gone far when she heard him sigh, and the arm around her waist loosened its death grip as he reined the horse carefully to halt again. "I thought... I never thought you'd be one of them."

Aisling fought back a sigh of her own along with the harsh words that first came to mind. Finally she asked, "What else would I be, Tristan?"

"Sarmatian. I thought you'd be Sarmatian." Those words hung in the air along with the sound of the warhorse's footstep. Aisling knew there was something she needed to hear in those words, but she didn't.

"Tristan, I don't... I don't understand."

Tristan sighed again, and then slowly he leaned down and pressed a careful kiss against the nape of her neck. At the sound of Aisling's shaky breath, he kissed her a second time and then straightened.

"There was a woman in my village. A seer. She raised me after my parents died in a raid. As each child in the village became a man or a woman, she would take them aside and tell their futures, in their palms, in the sky. Didn't matter how; she just knew. Agana was never wrong." He paused as if waiting for Aisling to speak, but she was all but stunned into silence as his words. She waited breathlessly for him to continue, and after a moment he did. "For me, it was the day the Romans came. Only hours before our scouts brought word that they were coming, she drew me aside. She told me I would go with them. And then..."

He paused again, and Aisling risked a glance over her shoulder and saw him lick his lips. His eyes drifted across the forest surrounding them, but she wandered if he saw anything but the seer of his memory.

"She told me I would fight; I would live. 'And one day' she said, 'one day you will face an army across a field of ice, and from that army will flee a seer, like me. Save her, Tristan,' she told me, 'and you save many.' She told me..." He licked his lips again, and then paused, as if considering his words. "She told me not to hesitate."

His eyes finally drifted down to the face before him, and at the look in his eyes, Aisling shivered. Tristan cupped her face in his free hand, and then slowly, so slowly Aisling could hardly bear it, he bent his head to hers and laid a whisper of a kiss against her lips. Aisling's eyes drifted closed as he deepened the kiss. He drew back, and traced his thumb softly across her cheek.

"Now, you are here. Agana was never wrong."

In the wake of those words, Tristan's arm wrapped about her waist again, and he urged his horse forward again, out of the forest and back toward the Wall.

**Whoo hoo! And now, I apologize, but I'm gone for November for NaNo! I certainly will have updates for you soon in December!**


	12. Chapter 11: The Homecoming

**Sorry this took longer than I'd intended to get posted my dears! NaNo fried my brain, and I had a really hard time getting my muse to settle back in for some ficness. As an apology, this is another longer chapter, and I can at least say that the next chapter is already started on paper.**

**BTW, this chapter was unbetaed do to holiday craziness, so all screw ups will be my own!**

**Hope you enjoy my dears!**

**(As always I own nothing but Aisling.. so blah)**

Chapter 11: The Homecoming

They had not gone far when the faint sound of drums reached their ears, and Aisling and Tristan exchanged a solemn look as they each realized that the Saxons were closer than they'd expected. After that, the ride back to the Wall seemed much swifter than the wandering route Tristan had taken north, and Aisling almost wondered if he was more eager to reach safety and his commander or to escape the uneasiness that had settled between them. The fear of Cerdic's men coupled with the taste of Tristan on her lips had chased away the ugly anger that had overtaken her, but the sense of conflicting excitement and fear that had been left behind was not one she was sure how to handle. From the stiffness of his posture behind her, she was almost certain Tristan was feeling a similar confusion. His discomfort was the only thing that kept her from twisting the saddle and demanding he explain himself or else leave her be entirely. It was not easy, she decided, caring so deeply for someone so quickly, especially when that someone was so recently an enemy.

As the sun began to set, the wall finally came into view through a break in the trees, and she gave herself a moment to sigh in relief, thankful that neither a vision nor an attack had kept them any longer. At her sigh, Tristan finally seemed to relax as well, and he leaned forward again to speak into her ear.

"We're almost there. You'll be able to rest soon." As if his words had summoned it, the exhaustion she should have expected after the past few days of trial, forced march, injury, and lack of sleep swept over her, and she sagged, now glad for Tristan's strong arm holding her up. "We'll find you a bed, eh? I can report to the others without you."

She shook her head; if he was going to stay awake this long, she would as well. Perhaps she couldn't likely contribute more to a war council than a trained scout, but she still felt responsible for her gift and for the precious few family members who she knew most likely would still be at the council as well. She felt Tristan shrug behind her and hid her confusion at his quick capitulation. She would have thought he'd be a bit more stubborn about it. Tristan didn't speak again, only guided his mount through the massive gate that had opened upon their approach. Aisling glanced upwards to the guards and then caught herself doing a double take in surprise. Britons stood where Romans had lazed only a day before. Apparently the bishop had taken the soldiers with him already. That caused another sigh of relief; she certainly hadn't relished the thought of dodging the slimy Roman any longer than she had to. Strange though, she almost wished some of the soldiers had remained. Her people looked rather scrawny and poorly armed when she compared them to the image of the guards who'd held the wall positions when she'd first come this way.

So be it, she thought. At least all of these guards were fighting for something that actually belonged to them. That added a strength that fancy armor and blades could hardly compare to. Or so she hoped, anyway. Tristan didn't acknowledge the new guards beyond an almost imperceptible shift to tighten his arm around her again protectively. She swallowed her sorrow at his distrust of her people and just allowed him to hold her as they passed the gate and rode toward the fortress itself.

There, warned by the change of the guard, Aisling was unsurprised to see a change had taken over the very atmosphere of the fortress. Gone was the faint air of both oppression and decadence the Romans seemed to infect; instead, the villagers, refugees, and warriors all exuded the same watchful and solemn air. All knew too well what would soon come slamming into their homes, determined to destroy them. Yet all, Aisling realized, were just as determined as the guards on the wall to keep their homes safe. Cerdic would find the people standing against him to be far more of a challenge than he might think, Aisling decided. The villagers might have run before; but now they would stand and fight. She offered up a moment of prayer that at least some might survive against Cerdic's well trained forces.

Tristan slowed his mount as they entered the bustling streets of the fortress, and the seas of people parted before him without a word or even much of a glance. Aisling guessed that had a great deal to do with the tension of the impending battle; from their walk from the stables to the tavern yesterday, Aisling knew the scout's path tended to clear with quite a bit of attention, be it faintly nervous from the majority or faintly intrigued from a few of the women. Tristan relaxed just a touch behind her, and she imagined he was more comfortable with the illusion of anonymity compared to fearful recognition; frankly she was too.

"Tristan!" called a voice from ahead of them, and Aisling saw Dagonet emerge from the stables and raise a hand in a wave. Tristan slowed his gray to a walk as they approached her giant, and Aisling took the moment to study Dagonet carefully for any sign of pain or injury. He was walking easily, his arms swinging freely by his side, and only the bandages gave any sign that he'd ever been hurt. She smiled to herself in relief. It looked like the Picti healer had done just as much for the knight as for Aisling herself; it was a good sign for her people and his eventually getting along. Gods knew, many of the Picti would have only healed Aisling and allowed Dagonet to suffer. Dagonet came forward to hold the big gray's bridle as Tristan dismounted and carefully lifted Aisling down from the saddle. "Arthur and Merlin are waiting for you both in the great hall," her giant said, not wasting a single word. "I am to care for your horse and join you there."

Tristan nodded shortly, and strode off, glancing back only once to see if Aisling was following. She shot Dagonet a quick smile over her shoulder, and then hurried after Tristan, not wanting to add any more irritation to the strained connection between them. This time, he barely slowed for her, and she had to force herself to half run to keep up with his long legged stride. This was the scout on a mission, she thought. She hadn't realized the silent but undeniably caring man from the prior evening could vanish quite this much. She shook her head at herself; she _should_ have known it.

Tristan reached to entrance to the fortress hall and finally paused, holding the heavy wooden door open as he waited for her to reach him and enter ahead of him. He followed close behind, allowing the door to slam shut behind them, and then leading her through the halls with a hand on her elbow. Soon she recognized the doors to the great hall, and they emerged into a room bright with candle light and bustling with men pouring over massive rolls of parchment and weapons. The noise stilled for a moment at Tristan and her entrance, but then it erupted again, as the knights called for Tristan to join them at the maps and Guinevere asked her cousin to come to her side.

"Here, Aisling, has Cerdic ever had you read a map before?" Guinevere asked, and Aisling shook her head as she studied the parchment laid before them. Arthur hovered beside Guinevere, and he smiled warmly at Aisling's approach.

"It isn't hard to understand. Look here: the coastline runs near the edge of the parchment. The whole shape of Briton is sketched out. This," the Roman commander said, pointing to a thick line roughly half way across the expanse of paper, "it the Great Wall, itself, and we are here, at the fortress of Hadrian's Wall. Every thing below the wall to the south is the territory that the Romans used to command, and every thing above was predominantly British territory."

Aisling nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration So north was up, south was down: that made at least a bit of sense, and it also told her where east and west would likely be located as well. The spot where Arthur had indicated the fortress was marked with a sketch that almost resembled a castle if she looked at it closely, and she noted squiggled of lines next to the shape that she guessed might be words labeling the location. For a moment she almost resented the fact that her mother had never taught her to read or write Latin, as well as speak it, but she shoved back the feeling quickly, knowing it was only the stress of the impending battle that would have her angry at something so petty. Especially considering it would have been impossible for Morgan to teach her daughter something that she herself never knew.

"So then, where would Cerdic's army be on this map?" she asked, to distract herself from thoughts of her mother. Tristan's arm came around to point to a spot rather near to the north side of the wall.

"That close?" Arthur asked, his voice concerned, though he tried to hide it.

"Yes," Tristan answered calmly. "Or they will be soon; we could hear the drums." His pronouncement caused a sudden lull in the conversations around the room, and Aisling didn't need to look up from the map to know that they now had an audience.

"Well that could throw a damper on our plans if they attack tonight. We won't be near as ready for them if they do." Lancelot's normally cocky voice was solemn and strained, and Aisling glanced up to find his brow furrowed as he studied the map.

"We will have to be," Dagonet spoke up, from the doorway. Aisling's gaze flickered to her giant's troubled face and then around the room to the other knights and the Picti that stood with them. It was dire indeed for these brave souls to look so worried. Something welled up in her, something she could not quite name other than purpose or resolve, though those seemed to fall short of the emotion within hands slipped to fists against the table, and she came to her decision. This time, for the first time in her memory, and without truly knowing how, she willed the vision to her, taking a deep breath and then forcing it and her Sight out of her in a blast of air.

_firelight and the sound of blades against whetstones 'sleep in shifts. a few hours each' 'father we should-' Cerdic waits and watches eyes close utill sunrise and mist and bread is shared ' you'll kill my-' 'they're my men' a tall tree and 'you should watch' a traitor falling to an arrow and the warhorse wants the Saxon's blood as much as the rider and 'finally a man worth killing' riders on a hill 'Rus!' blood on the land and thundering hooves 'demons gates to hell!' the war machines are armed and the torque is worn 'Picti women fight for our homes' the hawk flies through smoke 'my brave knights I have-'_

She gasped as the vision ripped away from her and she winced as she felt an iron band around her chest. She needed to breathe.

"Aisling?" the hoarse and almost panicked voice called to her and drew her even more awake. She blinked away the images still somehow imprinted on her gaze and realized she was looking up from what appeared to be the floor. There was a solid form behind and beneath her, and she recognized Tristan's arms to be the bands wrapped around her. She faltered for a breath and that seemed to be the answer Tristan needed. His arms loosened and one came up to stroke her hair. She was shaking, but for once she couldn't tell if it was she or the man who held her that actually caused the trembling. She could feel the tremor in his hands and she pressed her face into his chest in the only apology she could manage. Around them, she vaguely realized the others were calling out concerns and questions, but she didn't have the energy to answer. She wondered how much time the vision had taken; it was the most she'd remember Seeing since... She frowned; it was the most she'd ever Seen.

"Child, are you well?" A tattooed hand reached out and softly touched her forehead and she shivered as energy flowed softly beneath her skin. The Picti healer sat back on his heels with a smile as she carefully lifted her head from Tristan's chest. "There now. You pushed too far, too fast. This gift will take time to learn, to grow. _Must _take time or you may harm yourself." He looked above him to those hovering around and nodded once. "She is ready to speak now."

Aisling wasn't all together sure she _was _ready to speak, but she knew they needed to hear what she had seen. She straightened as much as Tristan would allow her to; there was a stiffness to his body that told her he would not soon be releasing her, not after the vision taking her with such force. She opened her mouth to speak and coughed, then tried again.

"Morning. Cerdic will wait until morning. He's making camp now just out of striking distance. He wants his men to rest before battle." The knights let out a visible sigh of relief, and Arthur scrubbed his face with his hand.

"Are you sure, lady?" he asked, and Aisling nodded.

"He has done so before; this will not be so different." She forced herself to focus, needing to strip the extensive vision of all detail before her borrowed strength gave way to exhaustion. She blinked to clear her eyes again and continued. "They'll use that tree closest to the gate to spy over the wall." She frowned. "They've a British spy; he led them here. Cerdic... He's going to sacrifice the rest of Cynric's men, those who survived the ice, to feel out your defenses. Then the rest will march. The rest of the vision... The rest I've seen before. Smoke and blood and battle. Oh, there were war machines of some kind. That at least was new." She caught a faintly superior grin as it flickered across Merlin's face at the confusion that last bit of information had caused among the knights. Apparently Merlin hadn't revealed quite all of his tricks yet. Fitting for a mage. Aisling blinked then as pieces of her vision splintered together revealing another whole, one she was undeniably afraid of. "You're going to let them through the Gate? To this side of the wall?"

There was a moment of silence and shared glances among the men in the room that answered her fears; yes, they would allow the Saxon invaders to breach Hadrian's Wall. She curled into herself, feeling exhaustion settle upon her like a stone at the thought. Somehow, the coming horror had not seemed real, despite her visions, despite knowing that Cerdic would come. She'd allowed herself to believe that some small part of Briton might never seen Saxons march across its soil, that the wall might have protected the southern half of Briton just a little while longer. Arthur glanced down at her with what might have been pity in his eyes, but his gaze flickered behind her to Tristan before she might have known for sure what emotion she'd seen there. The Roman commander and his scout shared a silent conversation over her head, and then Arthur nodded and turned back to the map, calling out questions to his men as if the moment had never happened.

There was a faint shuffle behind her, and then Tristan stood with her still in his arms. She gasped and clung to him, wondering if she dared asking him to let her down. She glanced up and caught him staring at her as if waiting for her to ask just that; instead, she ducked her head under his chin, knowing she must be blushing sheepishly in front of her audience. Tristan turned on his heel without a word to his brothers and carried her out of the great hall and through what felt like a labyrinth of corridors and doorways.

He finally half-turned and shoved a door that opened into a small cell of a room with little more than a ragged bed, trunk, and chair to give any hint that someone might stay there. The one luxury, though she doubted it would seem luxurious in the chill of winter, was a thin window at the foot of the bed. Aisling imagined the room would have felt far more cramped without that window. Tristan gently set her down on the edge of the bed, and then moved to drop a square rag of fabric over the window to block out some of the night air. He turned back and licked his lips slightly and Aisling began to wonder if she was imagining the faint air of nervousness as he glanced around the tiny room.

"It's small, but I never had to share it with any of the others so..." He shrugged and Aisling hid a smile. He _was_ nervous. "You'll be safe here; no one would be fool enough to harm you in my room, eh?"

She let him see her smile this time, and was rewarded with just the hint of a grin lifting the corners of his lips. He knelt suddenly and helped her remove her borrowed boots and then pulled back the pile of blankets to allow her to slide under.

"Sleep now. You'll need your strength for the morning," he said simply and she nodded slightly. He pulled the blankets up to her chin almost absently and she smiled at the sweetness of his gesture.

"You should rest too, you know. You've had as little sleep as I have," she said softly, not certain what her own motivations might be behind those words. Tristan just shook his head softly, his hand ghosting up to stroke her cheek. He bent slowly to kiss her, and Aisling felt her eyes flutter closed again at the feel of his lips.

"I'll sleep soon. I promise." With one last stroke of his fingers, he was gone, slipping through the door without a sound, leaving her curled up in his bed and drifting off despite herself.

She was still asleep or mostly when he returned. She didn't wake at the opening of the door, only slipped more deeply into an old familiar dream with a sigh.

_The hawk hovers above her eyes watching her as she slumbers. Slowly with silent wing beats, the hawk descends to land beside her and spreads great wings, sheltering her beneath them. _

A warm weight slipped into the bed beside her, and Aisling came half awake with a sleepy smile. Tristan pulled her close, and she burrowed into his protective embrace and was almost instantly asleep again.

**This ended in an entirely different way than I expected it to, so hope it worked! *huggle* Oh! ****We are in the home stretch btw, after this there's only about 3 more chapters and an epilogue! **


	13. Chapter 12: The Dawn

**Hey look there's another chapter! It's not quite as long as the last 2, but I still think you'll enjoy it. This actually is my beta Askita's single favorite chapters for this fic. The last section between Tristan and Aisling was orignally a request from her, but then it just ended up working itself perfectly into the story. So yeah, if you really enjoy it: thank Askita for the idea. **

**Oh! And yes, apparenlty my muse is a tease.. oops?**

Chapter 12: The Dawn

All too soon a faint shuffling of footsteps and soft voices from beyond the door had Aisling stirring slightly, nuzzling against the warmth she was pressed against. A low groan against her ear had her eyes snapping open to see that she'd been nuzzling the tanned skin of the crook of Tristan's neck. She swallowed hard as she realized she was curled up against him, his arms wrapped around her and pulling her tightly around his bare torso. She couldn't say exactly that she didn't want to be exactly where she was, but the unexpected proximity was making her tremble. She wasn't an innocent: her years in Cerdic's clutches had forced her to learn certain things whether she liked it or not. Still, her own personal experience was decidedly limited, and she had _never _chosen to be this close to a man before. It was a heady thing, and she swallowed again as desire welled up inside of her.

Without meaning to, her hand shifted against his chest, ghosting over the plethora of scars that littered his skin. She bit her lip and her hand stroked down his tight stomach toward the edge of his breeches. She heard another groan, and then Tristan moved before she could blink, rolling her onto her back and hovering over her. She met his eyes and her heart raced at the hunger in them. His eyes flicked down her form, and then he dropped his head, kissing her breathless. She kissed him back fiercely, her hands clutching his shoulders and his back and pulling him even closer. His hands roamed over her, as well, and his lips broke away to press against her throat and every bit of skin her tunic revealed. She arched into his touch and ground her hips against him, whimpering softly as the movement pulled another groan from his busy mouth. She kissed every inch of him she could reach, desperate for... she wasn't sure what for. She just wanted... needed...

Someone pounded against the door frame, jolting her nearly out of her skin, and causing Tristan to spit out a muffled string of curses into her shoulder.

"Tristan, it's time." At Dagonet's voice, Tristan began to mutter promises of a variety of deaths for the taller warrior, and Aisling might have argued for her giant's life, but in truth she wasn't any more pleased by the interruption than Tristan was. Tristan sighed gustily into her shoulder and held himself still for a long moment, and then lifted his head to give her one last gentle kiss before rolling off her and out of the bed.

"Come, it'll be dawn soon," he told her softly, pulling on a leather jerkin and his boots. Aisling searched for a moment in the dim light before finding her own borrowed boots, slipping them on and trying not to look at Tristan as he dressed, feeling inexplicably shy, despite what had they had been sharing only moments before. Tristan lifted her to her feet when they were both ready, not speaking again, only offering a long look that she couldn't avoid meeting. He stroked his hand down her cheek softly, and Aisling felt herself settle at the touch. He smiled faintly, with only the corners of his mouth turning, and then he led her from the room and back through the maze-like corridors to the great hall.

The mood of the room seemed rather somber, but it lightened considerably upon their arrival. Lancelot gave them a devious smirk, elbowing Bors beside him and nodding deliberately in their direction. Bors began to chuckle knowingly, and Aisling ducked her head, mortified at the thought that the knights likely knew exactly what had happened last night. Or nearly happened, she thought, more than a little put out. Tristan glared at the pair venomously, but Aisling noticed that did little other than to make the bloody idiots laugh all the harder. It was Vanora who put a stop to it; she'd come in to deposit a basket of bread on the long side table, and once unburdened, she slapped both men hard on the back of the head.

"That's enough of that, both of you." She glared, and Aisling was a little amused to see that _her_ ire was apparently far more effective than Tristan's, as both Bors and Lancelot seemed to shrink at her glare. "Honestly, bloody children, the both of you."

Mollified, Aisling allowed Tristan to lead her to the massive table and she sat sleepily while he moved and fetched a loaf of bread and some cheese, then sat beside her, cutting slices of both and offering them to her silently. She wasn't particularly hungry, but she could vaguely remember Cerdic instructing his men to eat something at least before battle to keep their strength up. With that in mind, she forced down a few slices of cheese and a hunk of bread.

She'd only just finished when Guinevere appeared at her elbow.

"You need to come with me, cousin. We need to prepare." Aisling hesitated, her eyes finding Tristan's. After a moment he nodded and turned back to his breakfast. She bit her lip, wishing she dared to kiss him in farewell, but she decided to avoid the audience and instead followed silently after her cousin.

To her mild surprise, Guinevere led her to the stables where she competently saddled a small shaggy mare and mounted, then maneuvered over to the fence so Aisling could clamber up and onto the horse behind her.

Dawn was just barely breaking as the pair rode out of the fortress proper and south of the wall, past dozens of villagers already working in the field before the great gate. Aisling wasn't sure what exactly they were all doing, though she guessed it had something to do with preparing the battlefield for whatever strategy the knights and Merlin and his advisers had planned. Guinevere barely glanced at the preparations, her eyes focused on the high ground just past the field itself. There, Aisling could begin to see the movement of their people among the trees. The Picti were there, and they were there in force.

Guinevere rode up the hill and into the forest itself, finally bringing the mare to a halt before a series of cleverly concealed tents that had been raised among the trees. Aisling slid clumsily down from the horse, and then Guinevere swung smoothly down. A young woman was waiting to take the mare, and then Guinevere beckoned Aisling to follow her into one of the tents. It was taller inside than she would have guessed, and dozens of women were within helping each other into various vicious looking garments of leather and lacing. These were warriors preparing for battle, Aisling realized, and she almost immediately wondered what her own place would be among them. Her cousin smiled at her knowingly.

"My father plans to have you at his side, Aisling, to take heed of any visions you might See during the battle. You will be away from the front lines, but there's still a chance of danger. You need to be as prepared as we will be." Aisling blinked and felt her hand shaking. She wasn't a fighter, had never needed to be when she was young, and then had never been allowed to be in Cerdic's possession. This... this was terrifying. She'd be relatively helpless, and gods, what if someone was hurt trying to protect her? Guinevere seemed to know what effect she'd had, and she reached out to take both of her cousin's hands. "Do not be afraid, cousin. You are Briton; you have never been weak." She smiled reassuringly. "You are one of us, the Picti, warriors and wise ones. Do not underestimate yourself."

Aisling took a deep breath and then nodded, squeezing Guinevere's hands as she did. Her cousin gave her a last bright smile, as the pair was engulfed by the other women in the room. Aisling forced herself to fight down her embarrassment as she was once again yanked out of her borrowed clothing, and one of the women began to help lace her into a pair of leather breeches and vest. The boots she was allowed to keep after the armorer inspected them with a critical eye, though only with the addition of several blades tucked into either boot. A belt with yet another blade and a pair of leather gauntlets to protect her arms completed the costume. She felt decidedly uncomfortable in the garb. It was far less than she'd ever worn, though as she turned to survey her cousin, she realized she was wearing more than several of the others. She asked for a bit of leather cord, and bound back her hair from her face, twisting it into a long braid down her back.

Guinevere's helpers finished sewing her into the few straps of her extremely abbreviated bodice, and then she bound her own hair up carefully as well. She strode over and studied her cousin carefully, and Aisling almost scuffed her feet self consciously, stopping herself at the last moment.

"You are... almost ready," the other woman said cryptically, and then led Aisling back out of the tent and across to another. All around the outside of this tent, Picti were smearing each other with the light blue dye their people wore to battle. This was actually the "Woad" the Romans named them for. Aisling found herself straightening her spine and lifting her head as she passed them. Her people were a fearsome sight, and Guinevere was right, they _were_ her people, too. She would live up to that heritage, she decided, no matter how much it might intimidate her.

Guinevere lifted the flap of the larger tent and waved for Aisling to enter ahead of her. Inside, Merlin and the other leaders of the Picti stood solemnly as if waiting for the pair's arrival. Guinevere didn't speak, only lowered her head respectably, and Aisling did so as well a beat behind her. Without breaking the silence, a pair of warriors came forward and began to smear the cousins with the light blue Woad. Aisling shivered a little at the cold of the dye, but otherwise forced herself to remain motionless, so not as to disturb the sense of ceremony. Once the warriors were finished, they backed away and Merlin stepped slowly forward to slide a gold torque around his daughter's neck, and then offering her another, bent forward so she could slide it around his neck in turn. Then to Aisling's shock, he turned to her, yet another torque held in his hands, this time in silver.

"This was worn by Viviane, the mother of my mother, and the last great Seer of our people." He slipped the beautiful thing about Aisling's neck, and she blinked back tears. "It is now yours, Aisling daughter of Morgan. Wear it well." He turned and beckoned to yet another woman, this one bearing a bowl of a much darker dye. She handed it to Merlin, and he took the brush and deftly drew a design onto Aisling's right temple. "You bear the Gift, niece, and thus have the right to bear its mark as well. Of the second gift, the Gift of Sight, have you been blessed. So, two marks." He finished and handed the bowl back to the woman beside him, and then taking Aisling's face carefully in his hands, he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead in blessing. "Wear them well."

He stepped away from her, and abruptly the solemn mood lifted. Guinevere smiled again and pulled her cousin into a quick embrace.

"You already wear them well, cousin," she said softly, and then released her, turning to allow the woman with the bowl to begin to paint her own marks, those of a warrior and leader onto her skin.

As Aisling waited for them to finish Guinevere's much more elaborate marking, a shout came from outside the tent, and then with a rustle of fabric Tristan strode through the flap, clad in more armor and weaponry than she'd yet to see him in. He paused, glancing around until his eyes landed on Aisling and he moved swiftly to her, ignoring the looks of outrage and interest from the others in the tent. Though she kept her eyes locked on his, she could not help but recognize both reactions. Unlike the simple awe Arthur seemed to inspire, it seemed her scout was both feared and desired among her people. Then he was directly in front of her, and all she could think was that the large tent was suddenly, painfully crowded. He took in her new appearance, his face carefully blank.

"You look like a Woad." She huffed and had to fight the urge to hit him.

"Pict, Tristan. We are _Picti._ Woad is merely the dye we wear on our skin." He studied her face again in silence, then nodded.

"You look like a Pict, then." His gaze flickered up to her right temple and the twin lines Merlin had told her she had the right to wear. "What do those mean?"

"It means I have the Gift. One for a Healer, three for a Mage," she nodded to Merlin in the corner, "and two for a Seer." He cocked his head slightly, and Aisling was reminded of his hawk.

"Not a tribe, then." It wasn't a question, but she felt compelled to answer him anyway.

"No, my mother never swore to any one tribe for fear of binding the use of her gift."

He nodded slowly and thoughtfully, and then turned and stepped over to the woman holding the bowl of dark blue dye. He reached for it, and after a glance to Merlin who nodded once, the woman reluctantly relinquished it to Tristan. He returned to Aisling and picked up the stiff brush from the bowl and began to mark her left cheekbone.

She shivered both from the chill of the dye and from the faintly intimidating knowledge that _this _likely meant more than he would ever say. He finished and handed the bowl back to the other woman without a word. His hand crept up almost as if on its own to stroke her cheek gently just under the marks he'd added.

"Iazyges." Aisling blinked and tried to repeat it, grimacing as she butchered the word. Tristan just let out a breath of laughter and then repeated the word again slowly.

"Iazyges." His slow smile told her she'd managed it correctly this time, and she smiled softly back.

"Your tribe now, eh? If you want." Her smile brightened, and she nodded causing him to smile more broadly than she'd seen before. He dropped his forehead to hers and let his hands rest softly against her hips. They stood merely drinking in the moment for several minutes, ignoring the others. Slowly his face sobered again, and he drew back from her slightly.

"You won't see the fighting. You'll be safe." She sighed; it wasn't nearly as reassuring for her as she imagined it was for him. All the same, she nodded to him. "When it's over, I will come for you."

He pulled her forward for a swift hard kiss, then turned and strode out of the tent without another word. She closed her eyes for a moment to savor the taste of him that still lay on her tongue, then opened her eyes to stare at the onlookers defiantly. Only Guinevere and Merlin did not look away. Her uncle's eyes held unexpected pride in her choice. Her cousin's: understanding and an even stronger kinship.

"They will survive. Both of them." Aisling chose not to answer. Even she could not yet see what fate the battle might bring.

**Hope you liked it my dears! The next chapter will finally begin the Battle of Badon Hill, so we are in the home stretch!**


	14. Chapter 13: The Battle

Chapter 13: The Battle

The rest of the preparations had moved far more quickly than Aisling had expected. She had been sidelined for much it, having no set task to perform. Instead she watched the hundreds of warriors moving into position, thinking that this was a delicately controlled chaos. It was a wonder that they all seemed to know where they needed to be, certainly Aisling would be utterly lost in the bustle about her. She kept close to Merlin, all but vanishing into her uncle's shadow at times to keep out of the way of the other clan leaders and the many advisers that swarmed around them.

Her role, as her uncle had explained it, was relatively simple in nature, if a bit more difficult to accomplish in deed: watch the battlefield at Merlin's side and attempt to warn him and their people if something changed drastically for the worse at any time. And things could change for the worse, she knew. She had yet to clearly see an end to the battle. Too many lives were involved which meant too many choices that might lead to hundreds of outcomes for each individual life. She had tried to See Arthur and Cerdic's ends specifically, but her gift had not answered her deliberate call this time. She was left dependent on the more mundane messengers and scouts, just like everyone else normally was.

In the midst of the madness, she'd heard of Arthur's meet with Cerdic, and had been waiting in a panic for word that the Roman had returned safely back through the gate. She guessed a certain scout had guarded his lord from the wall, but even that assurance had been slight. They'd been lucky, she thought; there was no guarantee that the Saxon leader would keep the truce, white flag, or no. It was likely only Arthur's own challenging presence that had kept Cerdic's honor at the forefront. She knew all too well that the warrior would never be able to back down from the thought of meeting Arthur on the battle field.

And now, all too soon, they would meet.

She and Merlin now stood atop the hill where the knights had placed their standards and watched in silence as the first wave of Saxon warriors met their violent deaths just as she had seen in her visions. The strategy that had unfolded before her eyes was fascinating, if terrifying. The smoke all but cloaked most of the battle field, and it was only their superior knowledge of the ground that allowed those few mounted knights to so decimate their foes without any casualties in return. Well, only that and the Picti archers who had cut down a great deal of the Saxons, as well. The timing between the volleys of arrows and the charges of the knights had been flawless, she thought. It was a testament of the skill and tactical intelligence of both peoples.

The brilliance made it no less chilling to watch, though. She hadn't been able to pick out Tristan's form from that of the others across the smoke and the distance, but she had known without a doubt that he was slaughtering as many or perhaps more men than his fellow knights. The screams echoing from the battlefield below were a terrible reminder of just how dangerous a warrior her love, and all of his brothers, truly were. She took the few steps to reach out and run her hand over Tristan's hawk-headed battle standard, and allowed herself a moment of gratitude that her people and her love were no longer each other's enemies.

All too soon what was left of Cynric's doomed infantry were all dead. All but one battered survivor who was allowed to scuttle through to take word of the others' demise. It was a masterful stroke, Aisling thought. The brutalized Saxon would no doubt spread at least a touch of fear to his brethren before he was killed for his failure.

Arthur and his knights withdrew from the battlefield to await the Saxons next charge, and Aisling was relieved to see all truly were as unscathed as she had thought them to be. She drew her attention away from them to peer out as far beyond the wall as she could; taking a deep breath to settle herself as the distant army burst into battle cries as one. Their numbers turned the sounds into a deafening terrible noise. There were so many…

"What do you see, niece?" Merlin's voice broke into her musings and she stepped back from the battle standard to his side. She shook her head at his question.

"Nothing. I have seen nothing." He nodded slowly, seeming unsurprised.

"Still too many lives in motion." He leveled his gaze at her, dark eyes seeming to hold all the mysteries of their people. "You will see when it is needed."

The roar of Cerdic's men suddenly grew louder as they swarmed through the massive gates of the wall, and behind her Aisling heard a creak of wood and metal and turned to see Merlin's most trusted men pulling forth several of the massive war machines she'd seen in her visions.

"It begins," Merlin said with a grim glee. Aisling followed his eyes to Arthur in the knot of knights below them. The Roman raised his sword in signal, and Aisling turned to watch as a ripple of fire spread along the ranks of the Picti warriors now visible against the trees. Almost in perfect unison, the archers let the flaming arrows fly, sending them striking both the men of the Saxon ranks and the ditch full of pig fat and oil that had been so carefully concealed on the battle field. The oil burst into flame, and fire rushed down the ditch in either direction, effectively cutting the battlefield and Cerdic's army in half.

Then the warriors were rushing forward, and Aisling had only a moment to pray for the safety of her cousin running at the head of the Picti lines. There was no more time to think after that, though. Below her the knights were in motion again, and behind her Merlin's catapults were armed and sending their fiery burdens out to slam into Saxon warriors on the closer side of the field in an explosion of light and violence.

Once their ammunition had been spent, the warriors manning the massive machines rushed forward to join the battle as well, leaving only Merlin and the other older leaders to watch and await the outcome of the battle.

Aisling watched all of this in a daze. Something was stirring within her, like a swarm of bees in her skull or a hawk shrieking in her heart. Something was wrong… Something… She swayed as a the vision poured into her.

_Arthur sees the Saxon leader but turns away to save his knight and his scout dismounts to bare his sword and a horse rears in anger blood on his fingers pick it up a proud knight crawling agony the hawk wheels and-_

"No!" She ripped herself away from the image of Tristan's death and was running before she realized the scream was hers. "No, no, no!" she shrieked again, ignoring the sounds of raised voices behind her. She would not be stopped now, could not stop in the face of what she had seen. She could not let her love die. Not like that, not at the hands of the man who had made her a slave, who had taken her mother. Cerdic would not take Tristan from her too!

Her boots pounded the ground as she ran down the hill and across to the battle field, desperation for her love buried the reality of the sheer madness of what she was attempting. She was no warrior, was barely armed, was liable to get herself killed, but she truly could not care. It he was lost to her, she would never recover.

She reached the Saxons and Picti scattered at the edge of the battle and ducked as one shaggy warrior turned and swung his blade at her. She ducked instinctively and kept running, praying he wouldn't pursue her. He didn't, and she could only guess he thought she wasn't a threat without a weapon in her hands. With that in mind, she didn't bother drawing the knife at her side or either of those in her boots, only continued to run, ducking and dodging the battling figures around her as she moved farther into the madness.

She felt strange, as if something was awake beneath her skin. A sudden sense of almost weightlessness slipped over her, and then she knew her gift was guiding her. It wasn't the true Sight she was so familiar with, more an instinct of each coming moment than a vision of what might be. She skipped to the side and a crossbow bolt flew past, close enough that the fletching brushed her skin. She dropped to one knee and a blade swung over her head. Like it had during her flight across the lake, she could feel her awareness shifting within her, warning her of danger with each step.

She made her slow painful way across the battlefield in this way. Her run had slowed to a crawl as she tried to find safe passage between the crowds of flailing armed bodies. Tried too, to find even a glimpse of her Tristan. Her vision had only shown him, and now, now she had no clear path to his location. The violence around her ebbed and flowed like the sea she'd crossed in Cerdic's hands, and each wave left her more confused. Her gift, it seemed, was not going to help her with this task either.

She dropped to her knees again to avoid a swinging ax and mused that her gift had more than enough to do just keeping her alive. Her priority though, was Tristan. Had to be Tristan; she just prayed she would reach him in time, before his pride and need to protect his brothers sent him to face a man he could not beat.

She felt the push of her gift sending her leaping back from the swing of a sword, and for a moment she thought she was doing well, but then the crash of a stumbling Saxon behind her slammed into her back and sent her sprawling helplessly, her gift slipping away before she could guess how to call it back. She scrambled on her hands and knees, now painfully aware of how helpless she really was. There was a shout above her, and she raised her head to see the same sword she'd managed to avoid once being raised for a killing blow. There was no chance the man would miss; he was one of Cerdic's generals and a man who could not fail to recognize her. Her eyes widened, and time seemed to slow.

This… this she had not seen.

Then there was a roaring over the sound of battle around her, and a massive ax, easily as tall as Aisling, came sweeping out and beheaded the man above her with ease. Time slammed back around her as Dagonet yanked her to her feet with another yell of rage.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, tucking her against him and wielding the ax with a deadly grace. "You were supposed to be well away from the frontlines!"

Her gift suddenly renewed itself, and she ducked under his arm, and pushed him out of the path of a crossbow bolt that might have taken his eye.

"Tristan. I saw his… He's going to fight Cerdic and-" she cut off as Dagonet only nodded, and turned in a circle to sweep his gaze above the much shorter warriors around them, peering through the dissipating smoke. His axe moved constantly as he fought almost absently, trusting his instincts and hers to guard him while he searched. He grunted in what sounded like recognition, stooping to toss a screaming Saxon over his shoulder and onto another of his comrades.

Then Dagonet let out a shrill whistle, and Aisling was shocked to hear the enraged trumpet of a horse near by. Then there were shouts of fear and pain, and Aisling turned to see Tristan's massive grey rearing and biting its way toward them. It reached Dagonet and reared again, and before she could react, Dagonet reached out and tossed Aisling up into the saddle. He grabbed the reins and spun the horse around him to face another corner of the battlefield.

"He's there! Keep low in the saddle and hang on tight." Then her giant smacked at the gray's withers and jumped out of the way as the horse half reared again and then surged forward.

Aisling thought she had ridden the warhorse before, but now she was firmly disabused of that notion. The massive horse had only been a mount before, relatively docile in the hands of her scout. Calm enough that she might sit quietly in the saddle without too much fear. She had not understood the danger Tristan had spoken of, at least not beyond the simple fact that the horse was so much larger than she.

But now she knew, now she was experiencing the heady fury that was a war trained gelding determined to reach its master. Now, she rode the warhorse. It reared to strike out with its front legs, then kicked back to slam its hind hooves into an attacker's skull. It spun on its hindquarters, snapping out with its teeth to bite a shoulder and shake the man like a rag doll. And those were only the intended attacks, she realized grimly. That was nothing compared to the dozens it merely trampled straight over with hardly a pause. She forced herself to turn her eyes away from the forms of her people who joined the Saxons beneath the warhorse's feet. They had been the enemy once, and it seemed the violent animal had not been informed that they were otherwise.

She clung to the saddle and anything she could reach, frantically grasping at a mane she could not reach through the metal armor about the gelding's neck. She gripped her legs as tightly as she could against the stirrups and saddle, trying desperately to hang on and stay low as Dagonet had instructed. She'd attracted attention now, and she was an easy target compared to the horse's armored form. It was only the jarring, unpredictable movements of the horse itself that kept her from being hit by one of the many arrows she now realized were flying toward her helpless form.

She didn't dare lift her head to actually search for him. Between the arrows flying and her own shaky balance, her stillness was likely the only thing keeping her safely on the horse in the midst of all the chaos. She had to trust that Dagonet had truly seen him somewhere in this direction, had to trust that the horse would stop at nothing to reach him. She tucked herself down even lower, muttering the word for friend under her breath like a prayer.


	15. Chapter 14: The Conclusion

**This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, so my apologies for the delay. Without further ado: **

Chapter 14: The Conclusion

It was hours or perhaps only seconds, and then the horse was pounding into a strangely clear section of the battle field. Aisling risked lifting her head for just a moment, but it was enough for fear to sink into her. Tristan and Cerdic were here, in the midst of this small space that the Saxons were likely keeping clear so their leader could enjoy his challenge in peace. Past the horse's head, she could see her love was still standing, his blade still held tightly in both hands, but his normal grace of motion was faltering. It took only that moment for her to realize just how injured he might be to lose that grace, and then the warhorse was storming past its owner and slamming its shoulder into Cerdic sending him reeling backward.

It was enough to send Aisling sprawling from the horse as well; that shift of body to look around had thrown off enough of her shaky balance that staying on was simply impossible. She tumbled off the other side of the warhorse and landed with a heavy thud and a painful snap of her wrist. She lay dazed for a moment, groaning in pain in between gasps as she tried desperately to catch her breath. There was a scrambling sound in front of her and then an armored arm was jerking her to her feet. She stumbled and staggered and nearly fell, the hand around her elbow lacking some of the strength she'd come to expect from it. Tristan just tightened his grip and pulled her harder, dragging her up and to his side. She risked a glance and saw his face was hard and angry, but his eyes were wide and frightened, the first time she'd ever seen them that way.

"Move, now!" He pulled her up and thrust her behind him, his arm drawing strength from desperation. She spun around in time to see him force his arms up and his blade clanged into Cerdic's. The Saxon leader had recovered from his tumble to the ground far more quickly than she had. She saw the big grey warhorse stumbling behind Cerdic, favoring the shoulder that had impacted the Saxon. Cerdic swung his blade again, and the force of the blow was almost enough to send Tristan to his knees. "Aisling, stay behind me," he ordered tersely, as he back peddled away from his attacker. He forced himself to stand tall again, shaking his head to clear sweat and hair from his sight.

Aisling cringed at the sound of her name, knowing Cerdic could not fail to recognize it. Sure enough, he cocked his head, lowering his blade for a moment to study her trembling form from behind Tristan's sheltering body.

"So. My Seer survived her escape." He tilted his head the other way, the deliberate movement somehow making his looming form all the more menacing. "Survived to betray me with my enemies."

She trembled again, this time in rage. How dare the bastard call her a traitor? What loyalty did he ever think he deserved after her slavery?

"I can't betray someone I was not loyal to in the first place," she hissed, fighting back the urge to lunge around Tristan to attack the Saxon leader. It would do her no good. "I don't belong to you. I _never_ belonged to you, you motherless son of a whore!" She immediately bit her lip and wished she had bitten her tongue so as not to challenge him. He drew himself up and tightened his grip on his sword as she spoke, his movements less casual now at her insult.

"I think you did. You should watch now. I'm going to kill your knight, and then there'll be no one left to fight for your freedom." With those words, he struck again his blade aimed more past Tristan toward Aisling. The taunt worked; Tristan lunged forward and back into battle with the Saxon leader, unable or unwilling to hear Aisling's whimper of 'Tristan don't!' She cringed as Cerdic met Tristan's charge head on. Damn the gods, she thought, he couldn't win, and now she'd lost any chance to warn him. For a moment watching the two men in their private war, she wished she were the warrior that her cousin was, or that Dagonet had tossed himself onto the warhorse behind her.

She wished that there was something, _anything, _that she might do to protect him.

Suddenly there was a roar behind her, and she spun to see one of Cerdic's men lunging toward her from the edge of the circle. She threw herself to the side to dodge the wild swing of his ax, now desperate just to protect herself. She wondered for a heartbeat if now she should draw her blade, but then dismissed the thought. A knife against an ax? If he drew close enough for her to use that weapon, she'd already be dead. The Saxon moved between her and the center of the circle and then swung his ax at her head again. She blinked and between one heartbeat and the next felt that shiver down her spine that said her gift would do what it could to keep her safe. She let it lead and dropped down to one knee, allowing the ax to swing through where her body would have been. She rolled forward between his legs, once again in the somewhat protected space. At least now she would be facing any attacker… or at least any attacker besides Cerdic.

And she had more attackers now. One and then another of the Saxon hoard around the circle had noticed and recognized her despite the change in her appearance. If her mind could have stopped racing in panic, she likely would have guessed at their thoughts: kill the bitch who betrayed them, and Cerdic would surely show them favor.

In reality, he would surely kill whichever took her life; he would not be glad to see his possession destroyed by any hand but his own. He suddenly proved just that, spinning and lunging to run his blade through a fourth soldier who her gift had missed coming in to strike at her back.

"The seer is mine."

He turned back to engage Tristan again, and Aisling couldn't help but stare after him in shock at the casual murder of one of his own men for so selfish a motive. That stare led her eyes back to her love. The Sarmatian blade flashed, twisting to parry Cerdic's thrust. Then, Tristan's eyes flicked toward her and widened in fear, and that was as much if not more of a warning than her gift could give. She spun to see the first man brandishing his ax, apparently uncaring of what his leader had ordered. She jumped to the side and the ax slammed into the ground where her foot had just been. Her foot? She blinked; perhaps the soldier was following orders. Maimed, she could still survive to serve Cerdic's will as his slave.

Please, she prayed somewhere deep inside herself, so far beneath the surface that her mind barely acknowledged the thought, let her die before _that_ happened. The Saxon grunted out his strategy to the pair of soldiers who'd stepped back as Cerdic slew the fourth of their number, and they both grinned maliciously and stepped forward brandishing their weapons again.

Then she was moving, desperation and her illusive gift moving her faster than she had before, faster than that she'd guessed she could move, faster than her mind could truly process. She dodged and dove, spun and slipped and skidded to her knees. Anything to keep her out of the path of the three weapons determined to rend her limb from limb. For one breath of a moment, she thought it might work, that she truly might survive, and if _she _could against these odds, then surely Tristan would be safe against one man, powerful though that man might be.

Then the moment ended.

A vision flashed through her mind, at a speed that somehow told her the glimpse would come to pass in mere seconds. _a dark horse crosses a river of fire two blades drawn- save her- Cynric's face twists in rage a crossbow and death is never expected no fate is- _

Aisling shrieked as the lead attacker used her momentary distraction to his advantage. She managed to twist herself at the last second and the ax only caught the edge of her right leg, cutting a bloody furrow to her hip instead of cleaving the appendage from her body completely. She stumbled away, falling to her knees though she tried to keep standing. A bolt of phantom pain flared in her breast and she sobbed helplessly. Another of the knights would soon be lost. Lancelot was dying, and this time her gift was useless to save anyone. She tried again to stand, but her wounded leg would bear no weight. She lifted her head to watch the inevitable Saxon sword rise up above her, then closed her eyes as it began to fall toward her.

A crash of metal and a cry of disbelief and rage had her eyes snapping open. Above her, Tristan's blade blocked the path of the Saxon's, and with a hoarse shout, Tristan muscled his sword free and twisted in a deadly arch, cutting the doomed soldier's throat. She didn't know how her love had won himself free of the battle Cerdic had locked him into, but he was free now. Free and enraged at the attack on his woman. She watched him with wide eyes, knowing that _this _was the true warrior Tristan truly was. Just as she'd underestimated the danger his mount would become in battle, she'd truly never grasped how vicious of a killer Tristan could and, in defense of her life, now would become. He was still clearly wounded; not to the extent that she now was, but blood still trickled from various cuts across his body. Aside from that hint, though, no sign of his handicap could be guessed at from his movements. Somehow while her back had been turned, he had regained that violent grace.

It was terrifying and beautiful all at once. _This _was the man she loved, and she knew him not at all. Another strangled shout was cut off, and the ax-wielder sank to the ground; his head rolled away to the side without him. Tristan had already turned to face her last attacker, but she found her gaze fixed on that severed head in a sick sort of fascination.

A flash of cloth approaching past the head caught her attention, and she glanced up to find Cerdic stalking his way across the clearing. He too was wounded, though not quite as bloody as Tristan; her heart caught in her throat at the sight that so showed such clear evidence of his greater prowess. A surety crystallized in her mind as she watched him approach. Cerdic would still win, would have already won had Tristan not abandoned their contest to protect Aisling. Needing to struggle against the very thought, she raised herself up to her left knee, wincing and nearly biting through her lip at the pain. Cerdic glanced at her once as she moved, but then dismissed her again with little thought. His eyes were intent on Tristan who was now faced with yet another foe who'd joined her third attacker. Her love was utterly focused on his opponents, and Aisling realized with a sob that he was unaware of the impending threat of the Saxon leader. Cerdic would cut him down, and Tristan might never know who had struck the death blow.

She could not allow it. She would not allow it. With a smothered moan of pain, she threw her weight onto her strong left leg and forced herself to stand, drawing her largest dagger with her free hand. Then, before her strength could fail or Cerdic could notice her as a threat, she lunged forward in a wild leap. She missed her objective: she'd hoped to reach Cerdic's heart or at least his belly, but her wounded leg collapsed under her. On her way down, with a wild cry of frustration and rage, she slammed the blade into the meat of his thigh.

Cerdic roared in pain, and lashed out in a backhanded blow, striking her hard in the face with his fist and the hilt of his sword. She reeled and fell hard gasping as she landed painfully on her wounded right hip. She pushed herself up on her arms awkwardly, trying frantically to crawl away from the enraged Saxon leader. Her life would be forfeit now; she'd dared to strike against him, and there would be no mercy, not even for the Seer he sought to keep captive. She crawled further, grasping at the grass and dirt in a pitiful effort to pull herself along. She screamed as a heavy hand grabbed her hair, dragging her up and backwards. She didn't need to look to know it was Cerdic, and she screamed again, batting helplessly at his arm, trying in vain to win herself free.

Then a tall form was before her, and a hand was ripping her free of Cerdic's grasp. In an echo of the first moments after she'd found him, Aisling found herself being dragged clear in Tristan's care. He wrapped his hand more firmly around her and pulled her away from her captor, his blade held out as a shield between them. Cerdic scowled menacingly at her rescuer and tightened him grip on his sword.

"Saxon!" The shout shattered the frozen scene the trio had made, and almost as one they turned to look to the side where the voice had come from. A flash of red and a glint of steel approached through the lingering smoke on the battlefield, and then Arthur strode in to view. Cerdic was drawn away from the pair to his new opponent as if by magic, the challenge in the Roman knight simply too much to ignore.

Released from the terrible weight of Cerdic's eyes, Aisling sagged. The last of her strength was gone. The sudden shift caught Tristan by surprise and he almost lost his hold on her arm. Instead he pulled her closer yet, and sank down to sit with her in his arms. She tried to keep herself aware, her frazzled instincts screaming that they were on a battlefield and there was no safe moment to rest, was there?

"Close your eyes, little one. The battle is ending. They are all that's left still fighting." Tristan's voice was weary beyond belief, but underneath there was a softness and a hint of wholeness that had her nuzzling her face into his neck. If he said they were safe, then they were. He wrapped his arm around her more firmly, and kissed her hair. Then he began speaking, so softly that Aisling almost didn't hear him. "We will be alright. Do you know what Agana told me, when she saw my future? She said 'Save her, Tristan, and she will be your future. Lose her, and you will not wish to have one.'" He nuzzled his face down to meet Aisling's and kissed her gently. "You're here. You're mine. Agana was never wrong."

Across the clearing, her once-captor whispered Arthur's name as he breathed his last. With a triumphant shriek, the hawk of her vision wheeled overhead. Tristan dropped his head to rest again on the top of hers, and despite the smoke and the stench and the pain, Aisling smiled and drifted off to sleep.

**Epilogue to come! **


	16. Epilogue: The Lady of the Lake

**Author's note will be below. For now just enjoy!**

Epilogue: The Lady of the Lake

Three Years Later

Aisling closed her eyes and allowed the forest to engulf her. The soft sounds of the wind shaking the green leaves and the calm rustling of small game through the underbrush told her as clearly as if she'd Seen it that no threat lurked nearby. She took a deep breath and drank in the healthy scents of earth and wildflowers and water from the creek that gurgled nearby. As she'd been so carefully taught, she catalogued each scent and sound, until the whole of what existed around her was firm enough in her mind that the slightest shift in the weather or tiniest movement of an animal would catch her attention.

Only then, when she nearly felt a part of the forest itself, did she allow herself to open her eyes and push silently to her feet with the aid of her oak staff. She leaned on it for a moment as she had ever since she'd healed enough from the ax blow to walk, allowing her stiff leg to ease before she tried to move again. Aisling took the free moment to softly trace the runes carved into the wood, feeling an even deeper calm settle over her as she did so.

Reaching the state of near dreaming that she had learned best allowed her gift to function freely, she smiled softly and stepped forward along the path that seemed to glimmer in and out of existence in front of her. She let her gift guide her for a few steps and then sighed and shook her head.

"No gift. I promised not to use my gift," she reminded herself in a whisper. She sighed again and let the path fade from view. "Try again, Aisling. Only use what he taught you."

She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again in an attempt to focus only on the task at hand. She glanced around her until she found the hidden signs of human passage that she'd known would have to be there. A soft green thread, almost indistinguishable from the greenery around it, was caught in a bush to her right. She plucked it off and wrapped it around her forefinger, pleased she'd found that first piece.

She continued on through the forest that way, stepping silently from one trail sign to the next however far down the hidden path that might be. These were not easy to find of course, and she knew very well that if her quarry had not been deliberately leaving a faint trail for her, she would never have found any trace at all. This was after all, Tristan's forte.

She smiled at the thought as she paused looking for her next breadcrumb. She'd had little choice in these lessons, but she hadn't particularly balked at them. Tristan enjoyed teaching, something that often surprised those who didn't know him well. Whether it was joining Dagonet in tossing Lucan up in the saddle with his first horse or adding his instruction to Galahad's on the archery field, he had a knack for explaining those things he knew. Granted, early on that might have only been due to him intimidating his students so badly they didn't dare to fail, but now most of the Wall City's new residents knew better. After all, most of them had seen the frankly adorable sight of him painstakingly teaching Bors' shy youngest daughter how properly to brush his massive warhorse. Aisling had a feeling that the younger Tristan's student, the more comfortable they both were. Few of the children knew to fear him like their parents did, and somehow it was the children who were always willing to look beyond Tristan or Dagonet's fearsome reputations and appearances to clamber into their laps with no regard for knightly dignity.

They were still knights, Tristan and his brothers, she mused. Though Briton was changing rapidly under Arthur and Guinevere's rule, some things remain constant. Arthur's closest companions and most trusted supporters were his five surviving knights. Others had petitioned to join their number and been accepted, but it was understood that those new warriors would never be held in quite the same level of esteem. His knights were his family, as close or closer to him than his new wife and father-in-law. Only his bright eyed little boy held a larger piece of his heart than his brothers. Aisling was only honored that she had become a part of that growing family.

Their family had grown by leaps and bounds, she thought with a smile as she strode silently through a grassy clearing, staff now slung behind her back as her leg had finally loosened. Galahad and Gawain had returned to Sarmatia after all, but their goal had been quite different than they had planned before the Battle of Badon Hill. Instead of making those distant plains their home, the youngest knights had sought out their families, and those of their lost brothers. All who desired it returned with them to Briton. Rome had not been pleased to lose the tithe of boys from those villages, but there had been little the once mighty empire could do.

So the families came. Bors had roared with delight at the sight of an uncle, aunt, and young cousins who had managed to escape Roman notice, and Dagonet had even laughed out loud at the sight of those cousins cooing over his golden haired foster son. Galahad's mother had survived and upon her arrival had taken to Vanora like long lost sisters. Gawain had found his grandfather, and while they had mourned the loss of Gaheris and Bedivere, his brothers, there was a joy in the golden haired knight that made him shine whenever he was near the old man.

He shone for another reason as well; though no one had asked it of them, the wandering knights had sought out Lancelot's family to tell them of his deeds and of his final act of courage. Lancelot's father and mother had chosen to remain upon the plains they'll loved so well, but his sister, a young woman with dark eyes and long dark curls had taken one look at Gawain and declared she'd follow them to Briton. Their first born boy had his mother's coloring and a wicked mischievous grin, and it was no surprise to his brothers or their wives that Gawain had named his son Lance.

A sound caught Aisling's attention and she paused, her mind pulled away from her thoughts. A Picti hunter stepped from the trees before her, his eyes wide and almost awed as they took in her face and the tattoos proclaiming her status.

"Lady," he said, bowing his head respectfully. He looked up at her almost hopefully, and she smiled softly. "May I have your blessing, Lady?"

Aisling hid her discomfort at the question, and instead nodded serenely. The hunter stepped up to her, and she laid her hand softly upon his forehead murmuring a blessing Merlin had taught her. The young man bowed his head again, smiling brightly, and then he melted back into the trees without a word. She sighed as she watched him go. This too had changed. Cerdic's pitiful slave of a Seer had become the exalted Lady of the Lake, or so the Picti bards were calling her after the battle on the ice which had brought her to Arthur. She didn't know how to handle the change, had actually reacted very badly the first time such a request had been made of her. Both Merlin and Tristan had tried to convince her that she was worthy of such status, but it was Agana who had convinced her to go along with it. Well… truthfully she had scolded and harped on Aisling fiercely about her responsibility to her people and how being a Seer meant caring for the present as well as the future and didn't her mother teach her better manners.

Roughly half the time, she was thrilled that the Sarmatian Seer Tristan remembered so fondly had decided to descend upon Galahad and Gawain and demand to join their little band of travelers on the way back to Briton. She was finally the teacher that Aisling had always needed, a Seer of equal strength and far greater skill than Aisling herself. Her control of her gift had grown by leaps and bounds under Agana's tutelage, and she could only be grateful for that aid. The other half of the time though, the cranky old woman could drive absolutely anyone to distraction, and her favorite target always seemed to be her young protégé.

Aisling shook her head at the direction of her thoughts and focused back on the task at hand. She was getting closer to her quarry now. The signs of Tristan's path through the forest were changing now, growing sweeter as he left tiny gifts behind for her. Here was a soft length of ribbon in the shade of green she preferred most; she smiled and plaited a small braid behind her ear and wrapped the ribbon around it. A little further was a hidden string of lovely wooden beads she guessed he must have carved in secret. She tied the string around her neck, stroking them softly with her fingertips. She'd study the details of each tiny animal later. Now, she simply wanted to find her lover.

She stepped forward again and slipped between two tall oak trees without rustling any of the leaves littered on the ground between them. She was close, surely had to be close. A shriek cut through the air, and she lifted her face to peer through the foliage. Her bright young hawk swooped past a break in the branches, the male all but dancing through the air. Clearly her lad had found his mate. Sure enough, after only a moment, Tristan's larger female drifted into view. Aisling smiled smugly to herself; Tristan hadn't quite planned that as well as perhaps he should have. With his lady circling above, there was no denying he was hidden near by.

Aisling returned her gaze to the forest floor and looked carefully for the next and final clues to her lover's whereabouts. A small flash of color caught her eye and she was moving toward it when a shudder moved softly down her spine, warning her of a vision creeping up on her. She turned to look over her shoulder and- _a powerful young woman stings a bow 'her father's eyes, her mother's Sight' and fires on some future target none but her mother might see the warrior queen claims the girl as her sworn knight my lord my prince I love- _

Another cry from the pair of hawks above her pulled Aisling from her glimpse of her yet-to-be-born daughter's future. She tucked it away in her heart and mind, cherished beside the visions of a peaceful eyed boy with a gift for healing who every animal in the forest would grow to trust.

It was only ever those two, son and daughter that haunted her mind now without her permission. Only those visions of a future so close to her own could creep in around her control. She welcomed them. She pressed a shaky hand to her stomach, pressing against her empty womb. As yet, there was no sign that either of their children would ever come into this world, but they would. Some day they would.

A strong hand slid down her arm to join hers at her waist, and she leaned against her lover's side as Tristan dropped a kiss upon the tribe markings on her cheek. She must have been closer to his hiding spot that she'd realized for him to choose to join her now. That or he'd merely grown impatient with the thought of her in sight but out of reach. He'd admitted once in the quiet darkness of their bed that he had waited 15 years for Agana's promise of the woman he would love to come into his life. Without her skin solid and real beneath his hands, he sometimes dreamed she would vanish again, out of sight into a world where he had no future and died at Cerdic's hands. He needed to touch her, he'd whispered. Aisling didn't mind; more often than not, his solace in her presence was also hers.

Tristan nuzzled her neck softly, the familiar rasp of his beard tickling a giggle from her.

"You did well, little one. Better than the last time." It was high praise from him, and she smiled broadly.

"Thank you for my gifts, love. They're beautiful." She glanced up in time to see that tease of a blush rush across his face and then vanish just as quickly.

"I'm glad." He nuzzled her again and then straightened. He cocked his head back the way she'd come, back toward the Wall. "We should go, eh?" Aisling nodded and took his hand, and with their mated pair still soaring overhead, they made their way home.

**So, this has been a long wonderful journey guys! I started this story back in 2008, and after a lay off, a move to another city, and then a one year long hiatus (Tristan and Aisling apparently thought he was going to die… it took some convincing to allow the story to unfurl this way instead!) I was finally able to dive back in, and have now finally reached the end of this story. Aisling has become one of my favorite OCs ever, and I will be sorry to set her to the side now. Not to mention, this has officially become my most reviewed story ever. You guys have no idea how awesome of a feeling it is to know that so many people enjoyed what I wrote!**

**That said, I did want to give a brief explanation and apology to everyone who thought/hoped Lancelot was going to survive. I just couldn't save him guys; mostly because the reality is that Aisling can't save everyone. She's not a super hero; she's just human with a gift. I really sat down and thought about it, and if she'd somehow managed to save Lancelot too, even while nearly killing herself to save Tristan, she would have crossed that line in my mind from being a person to being pretty damned Sueish.**

**Plus, in the end, I really think this was Lancelot's choice. I, as a writer, felt like I'd be letting the character down by changing the fate he chose. So yeah, sorry guys, but the voice in my head made the final decision this time.**

**In any case, once again, thank every one so freaking much for sticking with me! I'll be spending most of my time in other fandoms for a while, trying to knock out some of my**_** other**_** WIPs, but I may wander back here eventually. Until then, I'd love it if you checked out some of the other fics in my archive, but if not, I'll still be glad to have met you here! *massive huggle***


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